The Sky Is Falling
by roxierocks
Summary: After Chas is nearly killed in an accident he is changed-and not for the better. When he disappears, Constantine is determined to find him, but where is he supposed to start when he's no longer sure who it is he's looking for? Chastine.
1. In Which Everything Goes Upside Down

Disc: I don't claim to own anything to do with John Constantine or Hellblazer comics.

Warnings: slash (Chastine), swearing (lots of), gratuitous sex and a little violence.

A/ns: So, I started this story a few months ago, and am extremely proud of it for the simple reason that it is the only one I've ever actually bothered finishing! As I was proofreading, I realised there a few uncanny similarities to Lady Sapphire Kym's "The Green Exit Sign", but I assure you it is complete coincidence, as I started writing this before you posted yours, so sorry about that. It's my first foray into Constantine fanfiction, so don't be too harsh, and if the sex really is too gratuitous (I just like the word gratuitous) then tell me, don't report me. A super thanks to unscathedmuse for betaing for me.Well, read and enjoy! Oh and review.

_"Chicken Licken is minding his own chicken-pecking business one day, when an acorn drops –PLOP- on his head. 'Help,' he cheeps. 'The sky is falling down! I'd better go and tell the king.' And off he scurries."_ –Traditional Folk Tale

The smoke spread through him like a demon in its own right, uncurling in his lungs as it stretched its translucent fingers into every crevice, leaving no part of him sacred, untouched. Untainted.

Constantine exhaled the smoke, then brought the cigarette back to his lips with fingers that carefully disguised their shaking.

God, he was tired.

That last exorcism had almost finished him off, on a night when the damned had come out to play a little _too_ much for his liking. His fifth. In a row. It was a never a good sign when they all came at once like this, it always led to trouble, which usually led to him doing the impossible to save someone who, more than often, just wasn't that grateful.

Exhale.

He needed a drink.

Or several.

Chas was waiting patiently outside for him, cheek pressed against the window, fast asleep. A lot of use he was.

"Chas."

Constantine banged once on the window, and Chas jumped, mumbling something that couldn't be heard through the glass.

"Wow John," Chas murmured, as Constantine slid into the back seat. "You look like hell."

"Just drive."

Chas drove, and Constantine leant his head back against the seat, closing his eyes, letting the constant stream of chatter from the front lull him into some sort of peaceful awareness. He wasn't sleeping, just letting his mind drift, only partially aware that Chas was driving a little faster than he should be. He wasn't wearing his seatbelt, his hand too weary to reach for the strap.

The guy was drunk, he'd been told afterwards.

Too drunk to notice the red light as he drove straight on at the intersection.

Straight on into Chas's car.

It missed Constantine by inches. Lucky, he'd been told, as he stared down at Chas's still, broken body.

John never had believed in luck.

The other car smashed into them at a careening pace, and Constantine was jolted forward by the impact, aware that the taxi was spinning crazily to the right, the force of the other car carrying them round in a sickening circle, metal crunching and squealing as the front of the taxi closed in on itself.

Then Constantine's forehead hit the back of Chas's seat, and everything went black.

* * *

He was only out for a minute or two, and woke to sounds of screams and smoke, the smell of burning rubber and blood filtering into his consciousness. 

Everything hurt.

He groaned, trying to gather his perception, gradually aware that he wasn't sitting up right, that he was lying on his side, and no matter how hard he pulled at the door handle, it wasn't going to open.

Clenching his teeth against the pain in his muscles, the sore, raw quality to his skin, he manoeuvred himself towards the other door, the one that was above him when it shouldn't be, and kicked it open, screaming pains shooting up his leg. He pushed, pulled himself out, feet first, until he was standing on the road, clutching at the cab for support as his legs failed him and the world tilted desperately.

Shit.

He vomited, copiously, profusely all over his five hundred dollar suit and only good pair of shoes.

His fingers clutched at the smooth metal of the cab, the only thing keeping him upright, as he was vaguely aware of sirens, his vision flickering like a faulty light bulb.

It was when he tried to take a step that he realised something might be seriously wrong.

He collapsed, knees buckling, shoulder jarring as it hit cold, rain soaked concrete.

He heard someone swearing, then hands were touching his face, holding his wrist.

"Sir, can you hear me?"

_Yeah I can hear you. Now please shut up. I have a headache._

"Sir, can you tell me your name? Sir?"

"Constantine," he rasped. "John Constantine." _Asshole._

"We've got a head injury over here. Grab the board and a neck brace. Get some oxygen."

His eyes were closed, everything fuzzy, not quite right.

There was something he should be thinking about, something important. Something he definitely should have remembered.

"This one's not looking good. Mary, I think he's DOA."

_Who's not looking good? _

"Damn it. We'll have to wait for the fire brigade. I'll get this one in the ambulance."

"He only looks about seventeen."

_Who's seventeen?_

"LA29, this is LA22. We have three victims, two suspected DOAs, one with possible head and spine injury. Requesting assistance."

_DOA. That's not good. Whose dead?_

"Okay, load him up."

He was being lifted, felt weightless but at the same time never heavier. If he could just open his eyes, but the lids were weighted down, his struggle against them useless.

"Get him an oxygen mask. Come on John, you're gonna be okay."

_Am I?_

"That poor kid."

_Which kid?_

"LA central, this is LA22. Bringing in first victim from crash. I repeat, first victim from crash."

He was tired, too tired, more tired than he'd ever been in his life, and he couldn't hold on anymore, let himself slide backwards, hurtling into a blissful, black abyss.

* * *

He was screaming, throat burning, as he writhed against restraints pinning him down, down down. They were everywhere, all over him, grasping at him, holding his arms, legs, keeping him captive as he struggled and swore and spat and tried to scratch and hit and punch and kick, but they wouldn't let him. Then there was pain, sharp, sudden, biting, and the pressure was released, but he still couldn't move and then there was nothing.

* * *

He was blissful, floating, lost, drifting. He had no concept of time or space. 

He didn't even know who he was.

* * *

His throat hurt. 

It was the first thing he became aware of, before the pain and the bruises and the blinding headache.

His throat was raw.

He opened his eyes, then immediately closed them. When he opened them again, he wished he hadn't.

Gabriel was sitting by his bed.

The androgynous half angel blended in with the walls, wearing a long white shirt and loose, cool trousers. She wasn't wearing shoes. He could see her wings.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

His throat was like sandpaper, his voice strange, scratchy.

She smiled, displaying straight, white teeth. He always saw Gabriel as a she, even in her more masculine moments. Perhaps she thought he would relate to her better this way.

"Looking out for your wellbeing."

He would have laughed if he could. Hell, he would've settled for a smirk.

"Really John," she continued. "One would think you would be glad of the company. You've been in quite the worst shape you know. Screaming, violent. They had to sedate you, and quite heavily, I believe."

She leaned in a little too close.

"Having nightmares, John?"

His lips twisted. Shit, he needed a drink.

"Fuck you."

She laughed, leant back in the chair.

"Oh no, John. It's fuck you, I'm afraid. You are well and truly fucked."

Like he needed her to tell him that.

"Aren't you even going to ask how he is?"

He raised a vaguely questioning eyebrow. Perhaps he could figure out what she was talking about if his head would only stop this fucking pounding.

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

"You_ do_ remember what happened?"

He remembered screeching, pain, puke.

"I remember."

She nodded, apparently satisfied.

"He's going to make it. Just. It was looking more than risky for a moment or two though."

_This one's not looking good. Mary, I think he's DOA _

"Shit," he whispered.

"Oh don't look so worried." She waved a careless hand in the air. "He'll be fine. Eventually."

"Why don't you just fuck off and die," he snapped.

Perhaps not the best way to handle the situation, but the pounding was getting worse.

"Really, John. That's no way to treat a caring visitor, is it?"

Again, he wished he could laugh.

He was saved from answering by the opening of the door, a quick, gentle squeak.

"Excuse me, but how did you get in here? I'm afraid that only family are allowed to visit this patient."

"I am family," Gabriel lied smoothly. "I'm his sister."

"No she's not."

The young nurse's eyes snapped on to him in surprise.

"Mr Constantine, you're awake!"

She wasted no time, bustling forward, reaching for a glass with a straw in it and placing it against his lips. He drank greedily, desperate for the few sips his aching throat would allow. He wished he could appreciate the view down the neck of her dress a little more.

Gabriel tutted softly, as if knowing what he was thinking.

"You might be in some pain, Mr Constantine, the crash left several bad bruises I'm afraid. I'll see if I can sort you out with some pain relief."

She made to leave but Constantine grabbed at the edge of her skirt.

"I want her to leave," he rasped.

"Really, John," Gabriel said. "Is that any way to speak to your beloved sister?"

"Fuck off," he snarled.

"I'm sorry miss," the nurse intervened. "If the patient wants you to leave, you'll have to go. Sister or not."

"She's not my sister."

Gabriel stood, and for a second John could see her wings flickering as they unfolded themselves.

"Don't worry I'm leaving."

She dropped a cool kiss on his forehead.

"Until next time."

He watched as she walked to the door.

"Oh and John?" She winked. "Get well soon."

Constantine closed his eyes. God, his head hurt.

"Chas," he rasped.

"Shh sweetie," the nurse murmured soothingly. "I'm going to get you some pain relief. I'll be right back."

He tried to reach for her skirt again, but she had moved beyond his grasp, and then she was forcing pills down his throat, and he was feeling drowsy, and he could make out the words "they may send you to sleep for a little while" but was too far gone to connect them to anything and sank gratefully back into anonymity and blackness.

* * *

The next time he woke his head was clear. 

His throat still hurt, but he now had the presence of mind to reach for the glass by his bed, sipping the water gingerly, aware of the grating pain swallowing caused.

_You've been in quite the worst shape you know. Screaming, violent_.

_Having nightmares, John?_

Shit.

He had to get out of here.

He was halfway out of bed when the door opened and a tall man with glasses strode in, clipboard held tightly, brushing against his white coat.

"Ah, Mr Constantine. Glad to see you're awa-"

He stopped, comically, as he saw John, half in, half out of the bed.

"What in the devil do you think you are doing? Get back in that bed immediately."

Constantine froze, half of him wanting to rebel and the other half wanting to obey.

The doctor made the decision for him, pushing him forcefully back onto the bed. So much for dignity.

"You have been in a serious accident, Mr Constantine. You may very well be suffering from the after effects of concussion, due to the sedation we had to give you."

So Gabriel had been right. Damn it.

"How long have I been here?" he rasped.

"Only overnight," the doctor replied, glancing over his notes. "We'd like to keep you one more, just for observation. You'll be absolutely fine, though rather sore for a while."

"Chas. The kid…guy I was brought in with. Is he okay?"

He tried not to let any emotion show. Gabriel was known to be less than truthful at times.

_This one's not looking good. Mary, I think he's DOA _

The doctor gave him a slightly suspicious look.

"Are you a relative?"

"No I'm…we, uh, live together."

Oh _shit._

The doctor's eyebrows rose, hiding behind the frames of his glasses.

"But you're not a relative."

"We're together," Constantine blurted. "We're, uh, partners."

Double shit. Bloody _fucking_ hell.

The eyebrows appeared over the frames this time.

"I see," he said. "Well, I can see if I can get you an update on him."

Constantine blew out, slowly.

"He's not dead then?"

The doctor looked surprised. "Of course not."

Constantine nodded, slowly.

The doctor still looked suspicious.

"I, uh, can I see him?" he improvised. It sounded like something a worried lover would say. He was definitely in over his head.

"Perhaps I should get you an update on his condition first. I'll be right back."

Constantine waited, eyes slit towards the dirty window, and wondered what the fuck he'd just done.

"Well, the prognosis isn't good."

The doctor was back. Constantine hadn't even heard him come in.

"Chas was very seriously injured. He banged his nose against the steering wheel in the crash, and because there was no air bag," he said this as if it was John's fault "the impact was quite heavy. Several shards of bone were driven backwards into the brain. The surgeons were able to extract them, but unfortunately his nose could not be saved."

Constantine blinked. He imagined what Chas would look like with no nose.

"They have reconstructed as close to the original as possible, but Chas will be in pain for quite a while. He has three broken ribs, all on his left side and a nastily sprained ankle where it was trapped under one of the pedals. A miracle it wasn't broken really."

A miracle. Yeah, right.

"Can I see him?" he asked again. It sounded better this time. More concerned.

The doctor nodded slowly.

"He's out of surgery, but you must understand Mr Constantine –John- that Chas's condition is very serious. He hasn't woken up yet. We're not entirely sure he will."

Constantine blinked. Shit.

He prepared to slip out of bed, but the doctor held up a hand. "I don't think so. Hospital policy states that we take you in this."

He gestured to a wheelchair sitting in the doorway, blocking his escape like a squat, fat instrument of torture.

"I'm not a cripple."

"No one is suggesting you are, but for the safety of all our patients, we insist."

"No."

The doctor shrugged.

"Suit yourself."

* * *

Constantine decided that he must really like Chas, five minutes later, as he was wheeled into the lift and then out again on the fifth floor. Not even the pretty blonde nurse pushing him could suffice for this sort of embarrassment. 

Chas was pale and still, body broken on the white sheets.

"You were lucky," the nurse said. "The car missed your half by a couple of inches. The front bore the full blast."

He turned dead, cold eyes on her, and she didn't try and stop him when he got up, kicking the damn chair aside.

Chas's face was bandaged, and he remembered bitterly what the doctor had said about reconstructing his nose.

He reached out a shaking hand before he could stop himself, brushing Chas's brown curls away from the too white bandages that blended into the too pale skin.

"I'm sure he'll be okay," the nurse volunteered from behind him. "You see. You'll be able to take him home in a week."

He wished she would leave.

He turned abruptly away, striding to the door trying to put as much distance between Chas and himself.

"The other driver? Did they find him?" _'Cause I'm going to kick his ass._

The nurse nodded, looking sagely at him from beside Chas's bed.

"He wasn't wearing a seat belt and was thrown through the windscreen. Killed himself instantly. He was drunk," she added, as if that made all the difference.

"Bastard," he hissed.

If the nurse was surprised by his display of language, she didn't show it.

She backed away, though, when he went back towards the bed. She was afraid of him.

He ignored her.

"Come on you little asshole," he whispered. "You can't die like this. Fucking wake up."

He closed his eyes.

"Mr Constantine?"

He flinched slightly as the nurse touched his shoulder.

"We should get you back to bed."

How long had he been standing there?

He didn't protest, not even when she directed him to the wheelchair.

He didn't look at Chas when they left the room.

* * *

It was on the fifth day that Chas woke. 

Constantine was half asleep, one hand thrown over his eyes, a bottle of whisky perched on his chest (he'd abandoned the glass some time ago) when the phone rang, startling him from the sleepy haze the prescribed painkillers put him into.

Ten minutes later, he was in a taxi.

Constantine hated taxis, mainly because whenever Chas wasn't driving he had to pay, and the cab drivers always tried to make mindless small talk.

John was not a fan of the mindless small talk.

Plus he was trying to figure out exactly what he was supposed to do with Chas. He couldn't actually take him home, could he? Where would he sleep? Constantine only had one bed, and he would loathe to give it up. Maybe he could put him in the bathtub?

The nurses offered him kind smiles when he approached Chas's room, and the doctors explained that Chas would probably be confused, vague, he might not yet recognise John.

The bandages were still on.

"Hey kid," he murmured, and Chas's eyes fluttered open, fixing him with a surprisingly clear stare.

"Constantine."

John blinked, surprised by the cold formality in his tone.

Chas smiled, but it didn't look right, didn't reach his eyes.

Something was wrong.

"Surprised you came," Chas said. His voice sounded rough, unused.

"Of course I came." Was that was wrong? Had Chas expected John to just abandon him?

Chas just stared at him.

Constantine was starting to feel uncomfortable. He was aware of the nurse watching them, eyes suspicious.

Stifling a cough, he reached a hand out to touch Chas's hair.

Chas jerked his head to the side, then hissed in pain.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Constantine snapped.

"What's wrong with you?" Chas snapped back.

Constantine glanced quickly at the nurse, then shifted closer, leaning towards the bed.

"Look kid," he murmured, voice low. "I just came to see how you are."

"Then why are you acting so fucking weird?"

"I'm not!"

He stopped, took a deep breath, wished for a cigarette.

"Chas, I need to call your parents. Do you have their number?"

Chas had gone very still. Constantine suddenly had the feeling he'd done something very, very wrong.

"Fuck you," Chas hissed.

He closed his eyes.

The nurse, sensing something was amiss, swept over, taking Constantine by the arm.

"That's enough now. Chas needs his rest."

"I'll come back tomorrow," Constantine said, eyes fixed on Chas.

"Don't bother," Chas snapped.

"You should really leave now." The nurse was still tugging on his arm.

Constantine turned and walked away, deciding that the little fucker could _definitely_ sleep in the bathtub.

* * *

It was another week before Chas could go home. 

Constantine spent that time smoking, drinking and re-arranging the furniture into some sort of semblance of practicality.

The problem was, the only couch he owned was a short, antique hard back that wasn't exactly sleeping material, and he had no comfortable chairs to speak of. His entire apartment was impractical, he realised, as he stared around the large, single room. It had never bothered him before, the fact that most of it was taken by his huge, long dining table, or that he'd never gotten round to putting a curtain around his bed, at the far side. He'd never been concerned with the fact that his bathroom was only a green glass sliding door, and perfectly transparent. It had never mattered before.

But now, with the prospect of living with someone else, it occurred to John just how ridiculous his apartment was. Why did he have such a giant table? It wasn't like anyone ever came to eat there.

Food. That was another inconvenience. For someone who had spent a large proportion of his life ordering last minute take out, the prospect of actually filling his cupboards was not a thrilling one. He had braved the convenience store at a quarter to midnight, shoving chips, fruit and ice cream into his basket, feeling like an obvious fraud, having no idea what the staple foods one should have in one's cupboards were.

God, he was out of touch.

He moved the sofa from the side of his bed and set it up next to one of the huge, square windows that lined his apartment, and then carefully arranged upon it the new bedding he'd bought.

He stared at for a few moments, then grabbed his wallet and keys and went to buy an air mattress.

Chas didn't look impressed when Constantine arrived to pick him up from the hospital.

His eyes were lost and vacant as he stared straight ahead, small and hunched over in his wheelchair. John was barely acknowledged.

The bandages had finally come off, and his nose was swollen and purple, looking monstrous and deformed on the slightly scarred face. There were several heavy, black stitches that lined the cuts; they would have to come out in a week, the doctor said.

Constantine took the wheelchair and pushed him to the parking lot, where he hailed another taxi.

Chas was costing him a fortune.

Constantine helped him into the vehicle, aware that Chas was still in great pain, then slid onto the backseat beside him. He left the wheel chair on the sidewalk.

He studied Chas on the silent journey home, aware that something wasn't quite right, though he couldn't put his finger on what it was. The blankness in Chas's eyes, it was eerie, worrying. Perhaps he was still in some sort of shock from the accident.

When the cab pulled up outside the bowling alley, Constantine paid up, reluctantly, and picked Chas's light bag up from in between them.

He didn't offer Chas any assistance this time, having the feeling that Chas would ask for him if he was needed.

He wasn't.

Chas didn't speak a word as they went into the apartment, and John found himself unaccountably nervous (which never happened to him, especially when it was about _Chas_) and began to babble, or as close to babbling as he could actually do.

"Sorry about the mattress, but I thought it looked better than my couch. Are you hungry? I got some food in, though I don't really know what you like, but I can get you something else, if you want…" He trailed off, uncertain how to act, only certain that neither of them were themselves.

"I'd like a bath." Chas's voice was flat, dead.

"Yeah, sure. Do you need any, uh, help?" Constantine really hoped he wouldn't.

"No."

Chas walked across to the green sliding door without even looking at him, then closed it with a loud snap.

John closed his eyes and counted to ten.

He thought about his bathtub, wide, flat bottomed and old fashioned. So old, in fact, that the plug and taps were in the middle, as opposed to either end.

It probably would have made a perfectly adequate bed.

* * *

"You're not right." 

Chas looked up in deadened surprise, his fork trailing absently in his mushu pork.

"I don't know what you mean," he said.

"Stop fucking around Chas. You hardly talk, you haven't eaten all week. There's something wrong with you. What the hell is it? Do you need to go back to the hospital? Did they leave a bit of nose in your brain?"

Chas flinched slightly, and John saw a flare of anger in his eyes.

Good.

"You're becoming pathetic. You sleep all day. You sit doing nothing all night. You're becoming a fucking burden."

The anger was growing now; Constantine could see his entire body stiffening in indignation.

"But I suppose you only have yourself to blame. After all, you were the one who crashed the fucking car in the first place."

Chas broke.

He flew at Constantine, his plate crashing to the floor and splintering, mushu pork splattering in all directions. He pushed Constantine backwards, knocking him clean off his chair, hands wrapped around his throat in a death grip, eyes bulging.

"Shut up! Fucking shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

He was crying, tears pouring down his face, without even seeming to notice. He was squeezing John's throat as if it was his last grip on sanity.

John brought his hands up slowly, firmly loosening Chas's grip, pulling the hands away from his throat.

For a moment Chas tried to struggle, then collapsed suddenly onto his chest, sobbing in earnest, the mad anger that had possessed him only moments before leaving in a breath.

John didn't speak, just held his hands steadily, let him cry it all out, until eventually he stopped, the sobs subsiding to brief shakes then stillness.

Neither of them moved.

Just when John was sure Chas must have drifted off, Chas lifted his head, eyes locking onto John's, their message and intent very clear.

There was a tangible shift of tension.

"Fuck," John whispered.

Then Chas was kissing him, rough, powerful, unforgiving, his fingers winding in John's hair, pulling harshly on the short strands, then moving down his chest, ripping at his shirt, leg pushed in between John's, mouth pinning him to the floor, reaching for his belt.

And John, God help him, let him.


	2. In Which Nobody listens

a/n: thanks for the lengthy reviews of last chapter, they were very encouraging and Nako-chan – didn't mean to steal your idea, sorry! Write your fic anyway, I'd love to read it. Forgot to mention that this is movieverse, pre movie meaning no Angela. Ever. This chapter is quite short, sorry, but it all picks up after this, and it seemed a good place to break it. Enjoy and review!

"_It started out with a kiss, how did it end up like this? It was only a kiss." –The Killers_

It was either really late or very early, Constantine decided, the street lamps streaming in through the shutters making the difference indiscernible. The night had dissolved into a blur of lust, passion and pain, as had most nights over the last two weeks.

He had thought he was helping Chas that night, he thought he could snap him back into consciousness by yelling at him, it seemed to work, at the time.

He was a fool, he realised. Nothing had changed. Chas still slept all day, sat awake all night. He still barely ate and barely talked. The circles around his eyes were still growing bigger.

The only difference now was the sex.

On the table, in the bed, in the bath, against the window.

They did it everywhere, at every possible opportunity, and although John knew, deep inside, it was very wrong, and only making things worse, not better, he couldn't stop.

He couldn't bring himself to stop, because sometimes, in the midst of it all, he would see something, just a flash, in Chas's eyes. A hint of recognition, perhaps? He wasn't sure, he just knew that in that split second the dead, unresponsive person he was living with was gone, and Chas -the real, warm, funny Chas- was in his place.

And that's why he would continue to give it, as long as Chas continued to ask.

He sighed, running his fingers lightly up and down Chas's spine, aware that Chas wasn't asleep, because Chas never slept at night anymore.

The sheets felt dirty, sticky. The whole place stank of sex.

It made him feel sick.

But when Chas began to rub his hands warmly over his chest, he found himself responding, almost against his will, his hands moving from Chas's back to cup his ass, a loan moan of pleasure escaping as Chas ground himself against him.

It was wrong. It was so very, very wrong.

But he couldn't stop.

Chas's hand was twisted in the sheets, mouth open in soundless pleasure and John bent to kiss it, capturing his lips, feeling the desperate tangle of his tongue.

Chas's fingernails dug into his skin, breathless moans urging him on, a whispered word "John…"

John stilled, keenly aware of the sound, terrified in case it was his imagination.

Chas had never said his name before.

Then he said it again "John", and John knew he wasn't imagining it, nor the look in Chas's eyes as they moved together, that look of surprised pleasure, smoky lust, _recognition_.

"John," he gasped again. "It's not me."

John blinked, and for a second thought he could see something else, something that looked almost like fear, and then Chas's expression changed, the lips twisting into a snarl, eyes clouding over as he growled and bit hard into John's collarbone.

The mixture of pleasure and pain sent him over the edge, and he collapsed, boneless, Chas on top of him, a thin trickle of blood sliding slowly down his chest.

For long moments neither of them moved, then Chas lifted his head, his tongue sliding along the streak of blood, lapping it up before he transferred to John's lips, forcing it inside, the taste sharp and bitter.

Constantine pulled away roughly, pushing Chas back, unable to hide the disgust on his face.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he hissed.

Chas smiled his cold, deadly smiled that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Silently, he got up and walked, naked, to the bathroom, the door sliding closed behind him.

Constantine felt an icy shiver race across his arms that had nothing to do with the temperature outside.

* * *

He wished he knew what to do. 

He hadn't felt so out of control for a long time, not since he was fifteen years old. He was used to solving the problems, banishing the demons, knowing how to make it right.

He wished a bit of Chas's nose really _had _been left in his brain, because then they could take him back to the hospital, he could have surgery to make it right. He wished Chas was just depressed because then he could take some anti depressants and go back to normal. He wished Chas had amnesia and couldn't remember a thing about who he was, because then the old Chas would still be there, somewhere.

He watched him sleeping, curled up on the air mattress, blankets pulled over his head despite the midday heat.

Mostly, he wished he didn't care quite so much, because John Constantine wasn't supposed to care, wasn't supposed to feel so helpless.

John Constantine was supposed to toss the kid out on the street without a second thought.

And if John Constantine did anything else, the very sky might fall down around them.

He sighed, running a hand across the stubble that was gathering on his chin. He needed a bath, to change his clothes, hell he needed a decent night's sleep.

He took out a cigarette.

He was on his third before he made the decision.

Nothing was going to change, and they couldn't keep on living like this.

He was going to find some answers.

He took a taxi to the hospital, rolling the window down on the way, ignoring the polluted city air, and concentrating on the familiar feeling of being in control.

He_ would_ get the old Chas back. He _would_ make it right again.

Because he didn't have an appointment, he had to wait for over an hour to see the doctor that had treated Chas, the hard, plastic chair digging into his back a reminder of exactly why he was here, why he couldn't just leave. When, finally, there was time, the doctor only seemed harassed and annoyed.

"Mr Constantine, I'm not exactly sure what you want me to tell you. There was nothing wrong with Chas. Had there been, we would never have released him."

"But he's not the same. He's quiet, withdrawn. He doesn't eat, sleeps all day, then can't at night."

The doctor sighed.

"What you are describing are common side effects after a severe accident. You can't expect Chas just to bounce back."

Constantine was trying really hard not to let his temper get the best of him.

"It's been three weeks. He's had plenty of time. And it's not like that. There is something wrong. He's a different person."

"He was fine when you brought him in to have his stitches removed."

"That's what I'm talking about! He seems fine to you, but when we're alone he's…different."

The doctor eyed him suspiciously.

"Perhaps it isn't a problem related to the accident."

Constantine frowned, uncomprehending.

"Perhaps the two of you are having…issues."

He felt his jaw tighten.

"That has nothing to do with this."

The doctor hesitated, as if about to disagree, then nodded.

"If you say so. And I'm sorry, but I really cannot discuss this with you at this very moment. I do not believe there is anything physically wrong with Chas, but if you would prefer we can make an appointment and discuss it at a later date."

Constantine scowled.

"Forget it."

He didn't bother to thank the doctor as he left.

Standing outside the hospital, he wasn't sure what to do. He didn't want to go back, didn't want to have to watch Chas wake up only interested in one thing, didn't want to have to look into those bored, impersonal eyes.

He decided to go and see the one person who was bound to know something, loathe as he was to admit it.

He went to see Gabriel.

The church was quiet, his footsteps echoing against the stone, bouncing off the high arches. Gabriel was standing by the ever present fire, oblivious to the heat.

"Get out of here, Constantine."

Well, this was obviously going to go well.

"I need answers."

"I am giving you nothing."

She turned then, her eyes blazing a fiery gold. Her hair was slicked back from her face, her genderless features hard and unforgiving.

"You shouldn't be here. You reek of sin. Get out."

Oh yeah, there was that whole 'homosexuality' issue.

He took a step forward.

"I need answers."

"And I have already told you: I am giving you nothing. It is far more than you deserve."

He sneered. "Don't preach at me, half breed. Just tell me what I need to know."

Gabriel half turned away from him, studying the roaring flames before her.

"You know your problem, John?"

"Surprise me."

"Your arrogance stops you from seeing. Why, I do believe you think you could even take Him on."

Constantine's mouth hardened. Even he knew his limits.

"You love to flaunt the rules," Gabriel continued. "You love to push and push and push. You think they don't apply to you, you think you're special."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

She walked towards him, reaching up a hand stroke his cheek.

"And you are." Her thumb moved across his lips. "But no more so than any other soul on this planet." Her grip turned sharp, fingernails digging into his skin. He tried to pull away, but her hand was firm.

"You are playing a very dangerous game, John."

"I am trying to help him."

"Bullshit. You're trying to help yourself. Everything you do, everything you've ever done is for yourself."

He'd heard this spiel from her a thousand times before.

"This is different."

"No." She shook her head, eyes sad. "It isn't."

She let go, and he took a step back.

"Tell me what I need to know."

"I can't. I cannot be a part of it."

"God damn it, Gabriel!" he roared. "I need your help!"

She turned from him, eyes disgusted.

"Get out of here, Constantine."

He dampened the rage that threatened to flare inside of him.

"If he's hurt by all this, if he can't find his way back, if _I_ am stuck with that miserable impersonation of him forever, then I will blame you. And I won't let you forget it."

"It's always about you, John, isn't it?" She didn't bother turning around.

As he left, he kicked over the hymn bookshelf.

It didn't do anything, but the angry cry that came from the priest made him feel a little better.

* * *

"What do you know about possession, Beeman?" 

They were deep in the bowels of Bowl Bowl Bowl, hidden behind the lanes, the constant assaulting crash of ball against pins grating in Constantine's ears, although it didn't seem to bother Beeman. Constantine supposed he was used to it. Beeman's work space was practically where he lived, the floor to ceiling shelves covered with inventions, relics, books, you name it. It often gave Constantine the impression of stumbling into a very select jumble sale.

Halfway through stacking several large jars that were believed to hold flower pollen from the Garden of Eden, Beeman stopped, turning inquisitively.

"Not as much as you," he replied simply.

Constantine didn't respond, reaching for a jar and staring idly at the bright red petals, traces of yellow pollen smeared across their surface.

"I think Chas is possessed," he said finally.

Beeman laughed.

"You can't be serious," he said.

Constantine raised an eyebrow.

"You are serious."

"He's different, since the accident."

Beeman shrugged.

"Kid's in shock."

"For three weeks?"

He shrugged again. "I don't know. I'm not a doctor. Why don't you go and see one of them, if you're so worried."

"I did."

"And?"

"He said it was normal."

"Well, there you go then." Apparently satisfied, Beeman turned back to his jars, plucking the one from John's hands.

"I'm not convinced."

Beeman dropped the jar in obvious annoyance.

"Then talk to him. There's no point in asking me."

"I've tried that." Constantine reached for a bottle of yellow liquid. Beeman took it from him.

"Acid rain, from Calvary."

"What does it do?" Constantine was curious, despite himself.

"Bloody burns, that's what. Look John, if you're really that concerned, perform an exorcism."

Constantine shook his head slowly. "I'm not sure it's quite like that. He's not snarling, he doesn't have any veins popping out of him. He walks and talks and acts like Chas, but it's not quite right. As if he's missing the mark each time and not realising it."

He remembered, vividly, the night before. The way Chas had looked, what he'd said.

"He told me it wasn't him."

"Huh?"

Beeman, distracted by several small matchboxes, glanced up.

"Last night. We were…talking and he suddenly said "It's not me."."

"And?"

"And it was strange. Because the next second he had totally changed, almost become violent."

"Violent?"

"Sort of. It's hard to explain."

Beeman frowned.

"Doesn't sound like he's possessed. If he was possessed, he wouldn't know who he was, let alone tell you that, would he?"

"No," John agreed softly. "He wouldn't."

Beeman was looking at him with an expectant air. Constantine had the feeling he'd outstayed his welcome.

"I'll get those things to you by next week," Beeman said, his back already turned, tinkering with whatever new toy he had found.

"Fine," Constantine said. He hesitated for a moment, unsure what he was waiting for.

When Beeman didn't respond, he left.

Wearily climbing the stairs at the back of the bowling alley, Constantine wondered what the hell he was supposed to do now. Beeman had said talk to Chas. Could he talk to Chas? If he tried, would Chas listen?

Reaching his apartment, he dug his keys from his pocket and opened the door.

Chas's bed was empty.

He stilled, fighting the sudden panic that flooded him. Where could Chas have gone? He didn't even have a key. Had he left a note?

As he took a few steps into the apartment he realised that no, Chas hadn't left a note, Chas hadn't left anything.

The few things he'd acquired since living with Constantine were gone, the clothes, the books. The bedding was neatly folded on top of the air mattress.

Shit.

John ran to the bathroom, looking for something, anything that might give him a clue.

There was nothing.

He turned, not sure where he was going, only knowing he had to go somewhere, had to find him, and froze.

Chas was standing in the doorway.

John's eyes travelled down to the large rucksack at his feet.

"What are you doing?"

Leaving," Chas replied.

He made no move to come in, only stood, staring at John.

"Don't be an asshole. Where are you gonna go?"

Chas shrugged, looking slightly evasive. "I have somewhere."

"Where?"

He shrugged again.

"Look," John began uncomfortably. "If this is about what…happened…between us-"

"It was just sex."

The words, icy and unfeeling, were like a slap in the face.

Chas seemed to think there was nothing left to say. He turned to leave, but John reached out and grabbed his wrist.

"There's something I need to ask you."

Chas waited, expression bored.

John studied him for a moment. He looked good, better than he had in weeks, even before the accident. The shadows around his eyes were gone, his hair clean and healthy, his cheeks held a slight glow. His new nose, slightly smaller than his previous one, had lost the swollen look it had been sporting over the last week.

"What's happened to you?" he whispered.

Chas extracted himself from John's grip.

"Goodbye, John."

"Wait!" John reached for him again, holding his shoulder this time.

"Last night, what you said. What did you mean?"

Chas raised an eyebrow.

"About not being you."

His face wrinkled in the slightest perplexity.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

John tightened his grip. "Stop fucking around. This is no time for games."

"And I'm not playing one."

Chas pulled away again.

"Let it go, Constantine."

He turned and walked away.

John watched him leave, made no move to stop him.

Outside, he heard the distinct sound of a car starting, and darted to the window, despite himself, where Chas was climbing into the back of an expensive looking Mercedes. He squinted, tried to make out the number plate, but the engine roared and the car shot down the street and out of sight.

Chas was gone.


	3. In Which He Learns A Little Too Much

a/n: yay, chapter three. I know nothing about exorcism, so sorry if this chap is unrealistic, and I got the Latin off an online translator, so it's probably wrong! As usual, all reviews are appreciated.

"_Truth is too precious to tell any fool who asks for it." –Ancient Proverb_

_His own eyes stared up at him, almost black with desire. He could feel himself; feel his own hands upon him. He was staring at himself. His body coursed with pleasure, and he watched his mouth form a soundless cry, then a moan, low, gravely, lustful._

"_John," he heard himself whisper. "It's not me."_

Constantine shot up in bed, sweat dampening the sheets beneath him, the remnants of his dream apparent between his legs.

Fucking hell, that was weird.

He had dreamt of that night, his final night with Chas, but he had been in Chas's place. It was like he was having sex with himself. God, how fucked up was that?

He rubbed a tired hand across his eyes, then slipped out of bed and padded into the kitchen, pouring himself a cold glass of water.

He tried not to think of Chas, or that it had been three days and Chas still hadn't called.

Constantine would be damned before he'd be the one to break. Chas was the one who had left. He should be the one to call. Besides, Constantine doubted he even had Chas's telephone number. Chas had always just magically appeared whenever needed.

Constantine took a moment to reflect on the possibility that he had taken the kid for granted, but he pushed it aside. Chas wanted to be there. Chas _liked_ being there.

Or at least, he had.

"Fucking asshole," he muttered.

It made him feel marginally better.

He took another swig of water, reaching for the half finished packet of cigarettes on the table, lighting up and taking a deep drag.

The phone rang.

He squinted at it, wondering who the hell would be ringing him at this hour of morning. Who even knew his phone number?

"Constantine."

"John? It's Father Hennessey."

Constantine closed his eyes briefly. He did _not_ need this right now.

"I need your help."

He took a deep drag on his cigarette.

"Where?"

"Bel Air."

"You're kidding me."

Who the hell was possessed in Bel Air?

"How much?" he asked.

He heard Father Hennessey sigh down the phone.

"John, it's not about the money-"

"How. Much."

There was a pause.

"Three hundred."

"Give me the address."

Ten minutes later, Constantine was in a taxi, on his way to one of LA's smarter corners. Bel Air. Please. The people in Bel Air probably didn't even know the meaning of the word 'possession'. And how did Hennessey know anyone in Bel Air? The man was an alcoholic priest, for God's sake.

The taxi pulled up in front of a large, white house, the sort with a curved balcony right in the middle of the upper floor, and faux Greek pillars lining the front door. Constantine couldn't imagine anywhere he would want to live less.

He paid up and raised an eyebrow at Father Hennessey, who was waiting for him at the door. Moonlight shone across a perfectly manicured lawn. Constantine was struck by the silence in this part of the city. Over at Bowl Bowl Bowl the nights were filled with drunks and brawls.

"How do you know these people?"

Father Hennessey looked shifty; he was sweating, shaking and stunk of spirits.

"Friend of a friend," he murmured.

"Uh huh." Constantine pushed past him, into the house, and Hennessey trailed behind.

"It was the fiancée that called me," he muttered, wringing his hands. "She was distraught. I came straight over, but can't figure out what it is. That's why I called you."

Constantine ignored him. He'd heard this little speech a thousand times before. He was beginning to suspect that Hennessey just wasn't that good.

He strode up to the master bedroom on the upper floor, guided by the snarls and sobs drifting from that general direction. The fiancée was outside, mascara dripping down her cheeks in two black streams, wearing a short, white nightdress, hair sticking up. He wanted to shake her and tell her to pull herself together, but ignored her, instead focusing on the thing inside the bedroom.

He understood then why it was bad.

Hennessey hadn't secured the creature, and it was currently perched on top of the wardrobe, snarling and drooling down the (almost definitely) antique pine, veins popping out across its forehead and along its arms.

Not a pretty sight.

Constantine slipped off his jacket and quashed the urge for a cigarette. Now was not the time.

He watched the creature for a moment, noting with interest the way it hugged the shadowy crevice above the wardrobe, its limbs blending in with the dark, when it stayed still long enough.

A shadow demon.

A Rurrae, if he wasn't mistaken, judging by the hollowness of the man's cheeks. It liked to feed off the body it inhabited, eventually killing it and then moving onto the next host.

Constantine smiled to himself. He had just the thing to hurt this little fucker.

But first they had to get him off the ceiling.

As if sensing Constantine's thoughts, the Rurrae shrank further into the shadows, merging with the walls.

"Hennessey," he called. "Get ready to grab it."

Hennessey edged into the room, looking more than slightly nervous.

"What are you going to do?"

Constantine didn't reply, pulling a vial of holy water from his pocket. He unscrewed the lid, holding it tight in his left hand.

He turned on the light.

The demon shrieked, the sound of nails on a chalk board, and fled the wardrobe, darting around the room to find the nearest dark corner. Constantine tossed the holy water over it, and it screamed again, clawing at its eyes and scalp.

"Now!"

He sprang forward, Hennessey only moments behind, wrapping his arms around the struggling figure. The Rurrae flailed, one of its arms hitting Constantine across the jaw, and it was all he could do not to lose his hold.

"Some rope!" he yelled at the fiancée. "Get something to hold it down!"

He heard her let out another sob, but she was the least of his problems right then. The Rurrae kicked out, its teeth disastrously near to his face. Constantine knew it would have no problem taking a bite out of him.

He heard a grunt as Father Hennessey took a blow, and then a thud as the priest flew backwards across the room. Constantine swore as his hold began to slip.

Where was that fucking rope?

He pushed the demon back against the wall, a large gilded mirror falling off and crashing around their heads, holding him around the throat with one hand whilst trying to avoid the teeth, and using the other to wiggle his tie over his head. The demon raked its nails across his back, and he felt the material of his shirt rip, a cry escaping him at the sudden pain.

He pulled his right fist back, then sucker punched the bastard in the jaw. The demon howled, and for a second its struggles ceased. Constantine loosened his hold, and as the demon raised its hands towards his throat, he slipped his tie neatly over its wrists, pulling the knot nice and tight.

The demon howled again, using its bound wrists to swipe at Constantine, getting him flat in the side of the head. For a second he felt dizzy, then pushed it aside, pulling the creature's arms down and head butting him in the forehead. Hard.

The dizziness returned threefold, but at that moment several silk scarves appeared in his line of vision, and he forced himself to focus, Hennessey helping him man handle the demon over to the bed, strapping the bound wrists to the head board, the feet to the bed posts.

He rubbed his head, shaking off any vestige of a headache, and climbed onto the bed, leaning close to the demon, which snarled its displeasure.

"This is Constantine," he said, voice low. "John Constantine. Asshole."

It sometimes occurred to him just how trite and over done that sounded, but he couldn't stop even if he tried. It was almost a tradition. Good luck, if he believed in such shit.

"I'm sending you back to hell."

He pushed his shirt sleeves up, extracting from his pocket a small, cross shaped crystal on a string.

He dangled the crystal in front of the creature, swinging it lazily back and forth a few times.

"Audite meus to order. Licentia vestri populus. Ego to order vos dimitto."

The creature snarled, twisting against its bonds.

Constantine smiled, lifted the crystal in his right hand, then pressed it firmly against its forehead.

The creature shrieked and flailed as the flesh sizzled under the religious symbol, a string of indiscernible snarls and words escaping its mouth, its thrashing almost dislodging Constantine from the bed.

"Audite meus to order. Licentia vestri populus. Ego to order vos dimitto! Ego to order vos dimitto!" Constantine shouted, tightening his grip on the demon, which twisted its head around, trying desperately to bite him.

He felt the energy around the creature shift, weaken as the cross began to drain the force driving it, wearing down its resistance.

"In the name of the Lord God, I order you to leave this man. Leave now!"

It strained against his hands, the skin bubbling furiously where it had been hit by holy water, oozing a thick, black puss.

"In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit" -with his left hand he marked out the cross symbol in the air, his right still firmly holding the crystal against the demon's head- "I command you to return to your Master. Leave this vessel!"

The demon opened its mouth, and from it hissed a language that few on earth had ever heard, let alone could understand. A dialect that sent shivers up and down every spine it brushed, the syllables hash and unrelenting, the words filled with evil and malice.

Hellspeak.

"The sides are gathering."

Constantine froze, the words jarring the very inside of him.

"The fallen ones are gathering, and they will defeat all who stand in their path."

"Why?" Constantine asked. "Why are they gathering?"

"They will wager a great war. The Final War of the dimensions."

"When?" He pressed his hand against the creature's head, giving it a little shake. "When?"

The creature opened its mouth, but the crystal beneath Constantine's hand began to smoke, the demon's flesh sizzling as it howled, struggling under his grasp, its body trying to lift up from the bed, stopped only by the silk scarves. The veins became more pronounced, bulging around its eyes and down its throat, and its howl was ear splitting, its hands opening and closing in rapid succession, its limbs shaking. It gave one final, desperate attempt to be free, then the body went slack, the crystal burning fiercely beneath his hand before turning an opaque, smoky grey.

Damn.

Constantine silently watched the veins recede, the cracked skin repairing itself in seconds, a young man taking the place of the creature from hell.

He sighed and clambered down from the bed, dropping the crystal onto the floor and then grinding it fiercely under his heel, before reaching for the packet of cigarettes in his jacket pocket.

He lit one up as the fiancée rushed into the room, loosening the silk bindings of her beloved, crying half with fear, half with relief as she took him in her arms.

Constantine turned away, more affected by the sight than he cared to admit.

The fiancée had left a wad of bills out on a table in the hall, and he pocketed them on his way out of the house, Father Hennessey a few steps behind him.

"It spoke to you."

Hennessey fumbled with his hip flask as he spoke. They all had their coping mechanisms.

"What did it say?"

Constantine shrugged, inhaling a breath of smoke.

"Some bullshit about the Final War. The fallen ones gathering."

"Do you think there's any truth to it?"

"No," he replied flatly, ignoring the tingle that crept along his spine with the denial.

Hennessey nodded, taking a swig of whatever was in his flask.

"How's Chas?"

Constantine inwardly cringed.

"He left."

Father Hennessey frowned. "Where did he go?"

"Home?" Constantine snapped. "How the hell should I know?"

"You were supposed to be looking after him."

Constantine definitely didn't like the accusation in Hennessey's voice.

"What am I, the kid's keeper? He wanted to go, so he went."

He felt Hennessey studying him, and kept his face studiously blank, tampering down any and all emotion.

"Maybe you should call him, see how he's doing," Hennessey hedged.

"I told you, I'm not his keeper. Get off my fucking back," Constantine snapped. He almost felt bad when the father immediately did that, mumbling an apology before taking another swig. Then again, Hennessey should have more back bone. And stay out of other people's business.

Sometimes he wondered if he'd been born without the remorse gene.

He didn't bother saying goodbye to Hennessey, just turned and strode down the road in the opposite direction. It was times like these when he understood why he didn't have more friends.

He had to walk a while before he could find a taxi to take him back to his apartment, and he tumbled into bed without removing his clothes, only toeing off his shoes somewhere between the door and the end of the table.

He lay there and stared at the pattern the streetlights made on the ceiling, aware that the right side of his face was throbbing from where the Rurrae had hit him, but too tired to do anything about it.

He closed his eyes, the details of his dream from earlier drifting, unwanted, into his mind.

"_John. It's not me."_

What did he mean? It was obvious that Chas wasn't himself, why was he telling him? And why couldn't he stop thinking about it?  
He groaned faintly, dragging the pillow over his head, blocking out all sight, sound and thought as he slipped into sleep.

* * *

"I'm sorry sir, we have no number for a Chas Kramer listed."

Constantine ground his teeth in irritation. Trust the little bastard to be unlisted.

"Do you have anything for a Charles Kramer?"

He had no idea if Charles was Chas's real name, but, hey, it was worth a try.

There was a pause.

"No sir, I'm sorry. Not for this area."

Constantine sighed. "What about Kramer in general?"

Another pause, then "We have thirty eight Kramers listed, just in your area, sir."

Great.

"Thanks for your help," he snapped, a touch sarcastic, then slammed the phone back into its cradle on the wall.

God damn.

It wasn't like he would have even used the number, he tried to console himself. It wasn't like he was planning on calling Chas. No way. It was insurance, that's was all. Insurance.

He was exhausted. 3 am exorcisms really took it out of him. The scratches on his back left by the damn creature were burning, out of reach to apply anything to, and his face felt as if someone had bludgeoned it with a wooden mallet. He needed some coffee.

Trudging down the steps, his made his way through the lobby of Bowl Bowl Bowl, the usual Saturday crowd milling about in groups, kids clutching at their mother's skirts, screaming for sweets and ice cream. How John loathed kids.

He walked a couple of blocks to the nearest Starbucks (how was it even the seediest parts of the city still had Starbucks?), where he bought himself a triple espresso and a large, black coffee.

Sitting on an abandoned door stoop outside, he knocked back his scalding espresso, revelling in the burn that travelled across his tongue and down his throat, reminding him that he was, in fact, still alive, unsure whether that was a good thing or not right then.

Midday traffic trawled along the road in front of him, the smell of gas hanging in the thick, heavy air, shouts and laughs of passers by, kids darting out into the road, weaving around honking horns.

It was too hot for coffee.

An expensive car, immediately noticeable in the sort of area where nearly everyone drove run down Chevys and beat up Fiats, drove past, slowing in Constantine's immediate vision. A man in a smartly tailored suit strode towards it, a young Hispanic woman following, her white dress yellowed from too much wear. Constantine watched them, idly wondering what sort of business a man like that could possibly have in an area like _this_. The man reached into the pocket of his suit, extracting a business card, which he held out to the woman. She reached out to take it.

As their hands connected on the card, the street suddenly dissolved around them. Constantine stood in the woman's place, his hand on the small, white card shorter than he remembered, the fingers stubbier. The man in front of him was no longer a stuffy suit, but himself, trying to hide any semblance of amusement as he accepted the card, the words 'Chas Kramer' splashed across the white in bright red ink. He watched himself move, as if someone had pressed fast forward, over to the shelves that stood above his sink in his apartment, then his arm slowed dramatically, the image moving frame by frame as he watched himself reach up, pushing the card between two dust covered cans of Raid.

He stepped forward, towards himself, and saw his arm wave out in protest, covered by a dark beige sleeve, not at all like anything he had ever worn before in his life.

Standing by the shelves, he gave himself a sharp glare, then time slowed so that it was barely moving, his finger tips brushing the card as he pulled his arm away…

The world rushed back with a snap, the street returning around him with vivid clarity, the business man climbing into his expensive car, the woman stepping back, him sitting on the stoop, coffee clutched in his hand.

What the hell was that?

A vision? No, a memory. A forgotten memory, from over a year ago, when Chas had only just started driving him. He had some stupid business cards made, in case John ever needed to be in touch. Constantine remembered taking one just to humour him.

Shit.

He stood up, the forgotten coffee falling carelessly from his hand, splattering across the pavement and his shoes, but he barely noticed.

He knew how to find Chas.

* * *

The card was still there, shoved carelessly under the unused Raid, a years worth of dust piled on top.

Constantine yanked it out, eyes travelling across the red script.

It had a name.

And an address.

Constantine was definitely not the jumping for joy sort, but if he had ever wanted to do it in his life, then would have probably been the time.

He tried the phone number first, letting it ring twenty times before hanging up, and, without a second thought, tearing from his apartment to leap in the nearest taxi, giving the driver Chas's address, trying to control whatever it was that was compelling him.

It was ridiculous really. It had only been three days, for God's sake. Well, four actually. But still. Chas could take care of himself. He certainly didn't nee John running around after him like a fucking mother hen.

But when he thought of the way Chas had left, the cold, deadness in his eyes, he couldn't help but feel the worry in the pit of his stomach.

Chas wasn't right.

And for some God forsaken reason, Constantine felt duty bound to care for him.

He really hated feelings.

The cab pulled up outside a seedy looking apartment block, and Constantine got out, shoving a few bills at the driver. He glanced at the card again. Apartment thirteen. Irony, anybody?

Apartment thirteen was on the ground floor, and he walked slowly along the corridor, the overhead light flickering in a dizzying strobe effect.

Apartment thirteen.

The door was green, the three slightly lopsided, as if it had fallen off at one point and someone had just pushed it back onto the door, without bothering to screw it back in. The paint was peeling, revealing the wood underneath, several long scratches marring the surface.

Constantine knocked.

There was no answer.

He waited a few moments, then knocked again, a little harder.

When there was still no reply he leant up close, shouting through the door.

"Chas? Chas, its John. Are you there?"

He reared back and kicked it, swearing as he realised the damn thing was stronger than it looked. He pulled away and was just considering doing it again when a man's voice stopped him.

"Oi! You, what are you doing?"

A large man, sweating profusely in his stained wifebeater, came along the corridor, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Any other time, Constantine would have told the man where to go, but right now he needed to find Chas.

"Is this Chas Kramer's apartment?"

The man visibly relaxed, at the mention of Chas's name.

"You here for his stuff?"

Constantine blinked. Stuff?

The man pushed him aside, extracting a large bunch of keys from his pocket, sorting through them until he came to Chas's.

"I already started packing it up, I hope you don't mind, but I have a new tenant moving in tomorrow. Wasn't sure what I was gonna do with it, to be honest."

"Wait." Constantine put his hand on the man's arm. "Where is Chas?"

The man stared blankly at him

"Don't you know?" His eyes turned suspicious again. "I thought you were here for his stuff."

"I am," Constantine lied quickly. "But I thought he was meeting me here. Have you seen him?"

The landlord shook his head slowly, and pushed open the door.

"Haven't seen him for over a month. That's the only reason I'm moving him out." His eyes seemed to soften slightly. "Chas is a good kid, but God knows I've cut him enough slack. I can't have an empty apartment, especially when someone's not paying the rent."

_Over a month. _Just before the accident.

Constantine stepped into the apartment, and immediately understood why Chas liked to annoy him so much.

To say the space was sparse would be kind.

The walls were painted a shabby white, done long ago, and the window a tiny square in one corner. There was no bed, just a pile of blankets in one corner. A dirty sink lay adjacent to the door, a toothbrush, tube of toothpaste and razor laid out on the side. An old fashioned telephone by the window.

There were books everywhere.

No wonder Chas always knew what he was talking about, he must have hundreds of volumes here, and not just about demons either. There was fiction, Jane Austen, J.R.R Tolkein, Phillip Pullman. There were bibles, religious theology, dictionaries, even a few cooking books. A couple had been stacked into several cardboard boxes, lying open in the middle of the floor.

A flash of silver caught his eye, and he reached into the nearest box to extract a smart, expensive laptop.

"His pride and joy," the landlord said fondly. "He was always showing me new bits and pieces on that thing. It was the only thing he ever had money for." He shook his head, as if pondering the folly of teenage boys.

"How long has he been living here?" Constantine asked. He tucked the computer under his arm, picking up an ancient looking tome depicting a tortured demon on the cover up off the floor.

"Years," replied the landlord. "After his parents left he decided to stick around, which was fine with me, so long as he kept paying the rent. Which he did."

No wonder Chas worked so much.

"Where did his parents go?"

The landlord shrugged. "No idea. Kid just came home one morning and found them gone. No note, nothing. Taken nearly everything they had with them, left him penniless. Poor boy." He smiled, a slightly sad smile. "I'll miss the kid. He never gave me hassle, always paid up on time. He always had a friendly word, or smile."

Constantine thought about the last time he'd seen Chas. No friendly words or smiles there.

"I'll leave you to it, shall I?"

The landlord gestured to the boxes, and Constantine nodded, not trusting his voice.

The kid's fucking parents had fucking abandoned him.

Jesus.

He knelt by the nearest box, tossing books in without noting what they were, not caring.

Chas's God damn parents had God damn abandoned him.

He filled the first box, moved on to the second.

No wonder the kid had closed up like a clam when John had asked about them. How could he not know? After more than a year, how could he not fucking know?

He threw more books in, possessed by a mad anger, half at himself, half at Chas.

Why hadn't Chas told him? Why hadn't he fucking told him? No wonder Chas's parents never cared what time he was home, that he was out all hours, that he hung out with a _demon hunter_ in his spare time.

Chas had no fucking parents.

He pushed down the flaps on the last box, glaring at the volumes that wouldn't fit in.

How the hell was he going to get all this across town?  
He piled the remaining books by the boxes, the laptop set carefully on top, then went to find a taxi and some help, not relishing the thought of dragging all those books along the corridor and out onto the road.

The landlord was only too willing for the room to be empty again, and together they loaded the boxes into the yellow car, Constantine conscious of the rising meter.

"You can dump anything that's left in there," he said, sliding into the cab. If he was a shaking hands kind of guy, he supposed now would be the opportunity, but kept his hands firmly to himself.

"Tell Chas I said hi," the landlord said. "And tell the kid good luck."

Constantine nodded, and the car pulled away.

"Moving day?" asked the driver, glancing at him in the mirror.

Constantine glared, and the rest of the journey was spent in silence.

Despite his behaviour, the driver helped him unload the boxes into the bottom of the stairwell at Bowl Bowl Bowl, and Constantine was force to tip him, vaguely returning the smile that was offered.

Great. Now all he had to do was lug the damn things upstairs.

He could have asked Beeman to help, he realised, twenty minutes later, as he dropped the last stack of books on his table. That would have certainly saved some time.

He was sweating, his shirt damp and sticky, his arms tired and aching, his breathing hitched from going up and down the stairs so many times.

He took a deep breath, reaching for his cigarettes, and as he did so felt the air catch in his throat, a shaking, bone grating couch forcing its way from inside of him. Constantine was no stranger to coughing, hell he'd smoked thirty cigarettes a day since he was fifteen, but this time was different. This time the cough didn't stop, continued to choke him, wrapped around his lungs, unable to breathe.

This time as the mucus made its way out of his lungs, spat out onto the table, it wasn't just mucus.

It was blood.

Constantine stared, his muscles spasming, shoulders shaking.

Blood.

Shit.

It was nothing, he told himself, as he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, hands shaking slightly. It was just a reaction to all the lifting.

It couldn't be anything serious. They would have told him at the hospital.

It was fine. _He_ was fine.

He _was_ fine.

John Constantine closed off his emotions, closed off his fear, and pushed it to the back of his mind where it would stay, forgotten.

_

* * *

Translation: Hear my command. Leave your vessel. I command you to leave._


	4. In Which He Is Not Quite So Alone

Hey everyone. Here's chapter four. Scuse my awful Hollywood humour. Hope you enjoy it…

"'_Oh Henny Penny!' cheeps Chicken Licken. 'The sky is falling down. I'm off to tell the king.'" –Traditional Folk Tale_

It was three days before he looked at the laptop.

He'd been sorting through the books slowly, placing them in large stacks on his table, according to genre. He had no idea what he was going to do with them in the long run.

Did the kid want them back? If he did, then why hadn't he gone to the apartment and got them himself? Did this mean Constantine was going to have to buy a bookshelf?

He didn't think he could survive a visit to the Pottery Barn.

The laptop seemed more personal than the books, more private. It was almost as if Chas had died, and John was having to sort through his belongings.

It gave him the creeps.

He sighed, slumped at the table, whisky and cigarettes on tap, and pulled the computer towards him. It took him a few moments to find the button which turned it on (John was _not_ a computer person) and he watched as the thing fired to life, making insignificant bleeping noises, the screen flickering from black to bright blue.

The backdrop had an over blown, half naked picture of Angelina Jolie on it, and Constantine had to smirk, shaking his head.

At least the kid had taste.

He manoeuvred the built in mouse around the screen, clicking on files at random, searching through the list for anything that would catch his eye.

_The Sparkling Personality of John Constantine._

Like that.

Constantine clicked on the file, and several pages of short paragraphs filled the screen.

_May 7th, 2003. John climbs into the cab, covered in goo and smelling something sweet. "How'd it go?" I say. "Just drive."_

_June 23rd, 2003. After watching John propel a large wooden chair out of a third story window, I feel I'm right to be concerned. "Are you okay?" I ask. "Just drive."_

Constantine scrolled down a couple of pages

_July 5th, 2004. Watched John (almost) get mowed down by a motorbike. Again, am only being concerned. "Just drive."_

Constantine stared at the screen.

The kid had written down every freaking job they'd been on. Every single one. It was obviously meant to be amusing, but Constantine could only see the dismissal in each case. _"Just drive."_ Was that really the only thing he ever said to the kid? He could remember that motorbike, the asshole had nearly broken his legs. Had he really just brushed off Chas's concern?

He closed the document down, pushing the computer back.

God, why the hell had Chas bothered? Why hadn't he just up and left? Was John really the only thing he had?

The idea disturbed him, and he turned to another file, trying to put the thought from his mind.

_War of The Worlds_. What was that about?

"_Your life was right and good from the day you were created, until evil was found in you. Because you traded with countries far away, you learned to be cruel, and you sinned. So I threw you down in disgrace from the mountain of God. And the living creature who guarded you forced you out from among the gems that shone like fire. You became too proud because of your beauty. You ruined your wisdom because of your greatness. I threw you down to the ground. Your example taught a lesson to other kings." Ezekiel 28, vs 15-17._

"_O Lucifer, morning star, you have fallen from heaven, even though you were as bright as the rising sun! In the past all the nations on earth bowed down before you, but now you have been cut down. You told yourself, "I will go up to heaven. I will put my throne above God's stars. I will sit on top of the mountain of the gods, on the slopes of the sacred mountain. I will be like the God Most High." But you were brought down to the grave, to the deep places where the dead are." Isaiah 14, vs 12-15._

"_Then there was a war in heaven. Michael and his angels fought against the dragon, and the dragon and his angles fought back. But the dragon was not strong enough, and he and his angels lost their place in heaven. The giant dragon was thrown down out of heaven. He is that old snake called the devil or Satan, who tricks the whole world. The dragon with his angels was thrown down to earth." Revelation 12, vs 7-9._

"_People worshipped the dragon because he had given his power to the beast. And they also worshipped the beast, asking "Who is like the beast? Who can make war against it?"" Revelation 13, v 5._

Constantine frowned, reading the passages. Why was Chas interested in Lucifer's fall? What did it mean? He read the final sentence on the page, a little further down from the scripture.

_The war of the worlds is coming._

The war of the worlds? What the hell did that mean?

He closed his eyes for a second, and, unbidden, the words the demon had spoken to him in Bel Air floated into his mind.

"_They will wager a great war. The Final War of the dimensions."_

Could that be the same thing Chas was referring to?

At the time he'd dismissed the demon's words as last minute bullshit, but now he began to doubt. Was there truth to them? Had Chas known something he didn't?

He checked through the rest of the files, but couldn't find anymore on the War of The Worlds, or anything similar. Rubbing a tired hand across his eyes, he was about to turn the damn thing off, when another file caught his eye. It was named Lilith.

He frowned, trying to ignore the slight stirring in his stomach. Who was Lilith? Chas's mom? His girlfriend? Why did the name ring a bell? Had Chas mentioned her before?

He clicked on the file, and a grey box flashed, requesting a password.

The files were protected.

Crap. He had no idea how to break into encrypted files. Maybe Beeman would?

Constantine tossed a few passwords round; demons, Kramer, asshole, a couple of things in Latin, but to no avail.

He hesitated, fingers over the keys, then tried one more.

Constantine.

He let out a breath of relief when access was denied. He didn't think he could have handled that.

Lilith.

A sudden idea striking him, he abandoned the laptop, leaning over to reach for one of the books stacked randomly on a pile.

_Angels and Demons, A Brief Synopsis._

He flipped through to the index, and indeed found a reference to Lilith, page 87.

_Lilith, the Demon Queen, wife of Samael, King of Death and Destruction, does not appear in Genesis, nor is she mentioned in the Bible or other major religious works. But the story of her as Adam's first wife, and her subsequent "occupation" as a demoness, has existed for centuries. In Genesis we read: And God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created them male and female. But soon after we read the familiar account of God creating man alone, out of the dust, and in then the well-known story of the creation of Eve from Adam's rib. _

_The first woman, it is said, was Lilith, created at the same time and in the same way as Adam, just as all the animals, male and female, were made at the same time and in the same way. But Lilith wasn't like Eve. She argued with Adam constantly (particularly over sexual position), claiming that they were equal in every respect, and he should make no claims to the contrary. _

_Eventually, enraged, she uttered the Name of God, grew wings, and flew away from the Garden of Eden. She hid in a cave by (or under) the sea, where she had (presumably more liberated) relations with demons, and bore them children, known as the Lilim._

Constantine read the passage, then sat back in his chair, trying to make sense of it all.

Why on earth did Chas have encrypted files on his computer about the Demon Queen?

Constantine lit up a cigarette, contemplating the mystery before him.

The best thing to do, of course, would be to ask Chas. But as he still had no clue where Chas was, he would have to seek other sources.

He took a swig of whisky, making a face at the cheap taste.

Perhaps somewhere he could get a decent drink.

* * *

Midnite's was crowded when Constantine got there.

He peered through the darkened room, the vaguely fluorescent blue lights giving the club a slightly eerie feel, serving the dual purpose of creating atmosphere and hiding the less than pleasant appearances of some of Midnite's regulars.

Through the dimness, a pointed tail snaked from underneath a tan trench coat, the owner a perfectly respectable banker from the more upmarket side of town. Hanging on his arm was a slim legged, large breasted, blonde model-slash-actress, her eyes black and soulless, pointed teeth bared over full, luscious lips.

Constantine shuddered and turned away, avoiding a group of Bob Marley look a likes, currently involved in skinning several rats, placing them methodically in a suspicious looking glass bowl, filled with a dark, sticky looking substance.

At the bar, several angels were participating in some kind of drinking game, taking it in turns to colour their shots bright, glowing fluorescents, before downing them.

Constantine shook his head in disgust. Fucking angels, loved turning up to piss on everyone else's bonfires, but had no trouble deviating from the moral high ground themselves. He knew that wasn't exactly fair, that some angel half breeds, for example fucking Gabriel, would never be caught dead in Midnite's flaunting the rules so brazenly, but Constantine never had been one for fair.

He pushed his way through the gathered hoards of demons, vampires, and angels alike, trying not to let his distaste show too much as each scene was revealed to him, every one more unsettling in its own way.

He always forgot how much he hated this place.

He made his way to Midnite's private office door and waited, the solid bulk standing firm before him, impenetrable. Naturally. There was nothing he could do but wait, wait for Midnite to feel he'd waited enough.

Constantine frowned, the door blurring in front of him slightly, a flurry of dizziness passing through him as he felt the witch doctor's mind ghost over his presence, sensing his unique signature, recognising him. There was a second of resistance, then the door gave way, swinging open for him.

He stepped into the room, the red, padded walls giving him the uncanny feeling of being in an insane asylum.

Super.

"John."

Midnite was behind his desk, feet resting on the surface, trilby hat pulled low over his eyes.

"What brings you here?"

"Angels. Demons. The usual."

Midnite didn't bother to look up, and Constantine was aware of the mild irritation that usually accompanied having any contact with Midnite.

As if sensing Constantine's displeasure, Midnite tipped his hat back, gesturing to the chair in front of him, and Constantine sat down, wary of the unusual courtesy.

"It has been some time," Midnite murmured.

Constantine nodded. "Not much has been happening," he replied casually.

"I heard you were in an accident," Midnite countered, just as casual. "I trust you were not hurt?"

Constantine wasn't fooled by the faux concern. As if Midnite gave a fuck about his health. He just wanted to stay on top of the information line.

"I'm fine," he replied stiffly.

"And your apprentice?" Midnite pressed.

Constantine clenched his jaw in irritation. He hated it when anyone other than himself referred to Chas as his apprentice. It was almost like a private joke between the two of them. Or would be, if Constantine ever indulged in private jokes.

"He's fine."

Midnite regarded him perceptively. Constantine resisted a very strong urge to squirm. It was as if the bastard could see straight through him.

"As you say."

Constantine scowled. Enough chit chat.

"What do you know about the War of The Worlds?"

Midnite narrowed his eyes.

"What do _you_ know, John?"

Constantine's scowl deepened.

"No fucking games, okay? A demon spoke to me the other night, yeah that's right, fucking spoke to me in fucking Hellspeak." He resisted an urge to shudder, the memory of those words piercing him like glass all too fresh. "It told me the sides were gathering, that there was going to be a final war of the dimensions."

Midnite nodded sagely.

"I too have heard rumours of this gathering. The wind whispers of unease. The skies grow restless."

Constantine tightened his jaw slightly. He hated it when Midnite got all nature boy.

"I feel that this cannot be good for us."

Constantine wondered idly who Midnite considered as 'us'. His loyalties were too blurred.

"I found some stuff on Chas's computer, passages from the bible, about Lucifer's fall and the rising of the beast. Do you think that's what this is about?"

Midnite shook his head slowly.

"It is too yet soon for the final Revelation."

"But that demon said-"

"It is too soon."

Constantine fell silent.

"This is something else," Midnite said finally. "This is something that should not concern us."

"I don't like the sound of that should," Constantine muttered.

"There is something coming. You must be prepared."

"For what?"

But Midnite only shook his head.

"I cannot see that far."

Impatience rose in Constantine.

"That's the fucking thing though, you could. If you tried. If you could be _fucking_

bothered."

Midnite slammed his fists down on the table, but Constantine didn't flinch.

"You know my rules," Midnite warned.

"Yeah, you're Switzerland, neutral," Constantine responded dryly. "I've heard that bull shit a thousand times before. You know what I think?" He leant towards Midnite, invading his personal space. "I think it's just an excuse not to get fucking involved. Not to have to pick a fucking side. That way you always fucking win, huh?"

Midnite's hand shot out, wrapping around Constantine's throat, pulling him viciously to his feet.

"Do you dare to presume to tell me my own mind?" he hissed, leaning across the table, their faces only centimetres apart. "Do you dare to question my logic?"

"I think I just did," Constantine rasped, his hands on Midnite's, trying in vain to loosen the pressure around his windpipe.

Midnite's hand tightened, then he let go, sending Constantine sprawling back into his chair.

"It is not wise to question others' loyalties when one's own are undecided," he said icily.

Constantine rubbed his throat, briefly, then straightened his thin, black tie.

"I need you tell me what's coming," he said.

Midnite shook his head firmly.

"I have already said too much. I cannot upset the balance."

Constantine felt his temper rising. He hated it when Midnite pulled the 'balance' bullshit.

"There is no fucking balance," he snapped. "The balance is well and truly fucked."

"Enough!"

Midnite stood in a quick, easy motion, and Constantine reached a protective hand to his

throat, despite himself.

"I have said all I can."

Constantine glared at him for a few moments, their wills battling silently, then sighed, getting to his feet. He would get nothing more here.

As he was turning to leave, a thought occurred to him.

"What do you know about Lilith?"

Midnite, watching him, became very still.

"Why do you want to know?"

Constantine shrugged, nonchalant. "Just curious. The Demon Queen, right?"

Midnite nodded.

"An irresistible combination of beauty, magic and evil. She has ensnared many a man

into her deadly traps."

"But she couldn't be here, on earth, right? Demons stay in Hell, those are the rules."

Midnite drew himself up slightly.

"I assure you, if Lilith was walking this earth, I would know about it. And so would you, and every other God forsaken soul on this planet."

Constantine stared at him for a moment, then turned to leave, Midnite's words ringing in his ears.

He had to get into those encrypted files.

_

* * *

The skies were glittering with a thousand lights. Fire, fierce, unyielding. Stars, bright, shining, Suns, rolling, burning._

_The sides faced each other across the great ravine, huge gusts of smoke and sulphur rising in clouds of suffocating smog. Through the clouds were brief glimpses of lights, buildings, oceans, fields. It was Earth, but the scale wasn't right. The ocean was like a pond next to the skyscraper, the fields barely visible under a heavy blanket of pollution. It was Earth, but the earth as it could only be seen from above, a rotting, festering, dying planet, riddled with pain and sin._

_The sides were ready. They had their weapons of war, of destruction._

_They were ready._

_A signal from both; one pure, melodic, one coarse, painful to the ears._

_War cries, then battle._

_The sides swept forward, converging on the ravine above the planet they both fought so desperately to possess._

_The fire, the sun, the stars, melding into blinding, brilliant, painful brightness._

_The crunch of warrior against warrior, the air thick with raw, dark pain, the smash of body against body, some falling, falling below, screaming in pain, sudden, real, undeniable pain._

_The fire, the sun, the stars, melding into blinding, brilliant, painful brightness. The brightness surrounding everything, everyone, the battle, earth, existence, so, so bright… _

Constantine woke with a start, aware of a wetness sliding down his face, and his heart going away like a jack hammer.

He sat up, blinking blearily in the morning light, wincing as the wetness dripped into his eyes, stinging a sharp, fresh pain. He righted the bottle of vodka, hastily pushing Chas's computer back from the growing puddle that had begun to drip onto the floor.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what had that been about?

The dream still felt so real to him, so _raw_ it was almost painful. He could still feel the Hell fires on his skin, the overpowering burning of the stars, the _pain_ behind it all.

"_They will wager a great war. The Final War of the dimensions."_

The demon's words floated into his subconscious, and he shivered, sweat drying rapidly on his skin. Was he seeing the future? Was it some sort of vision? A warning?

Absently, he reached for the now empty bottle of vodka and raised it to his mouth, lip curling in disgust as he was presented with nothing. He must have knocked it over in his sleep, damnit. He trailed his fingers through the puddle on the table, the cool liquid permeating his awareness, providing relief from the still-too-fresh feel of his very skin burning amongst the flames of heaven and hell.

He sighed, rotating his neck around in as slow circle, trying to alleviate the stiffness

there.

He had stayed up most of the night trying to access the files on Chas's computer, fuelled by booze and cigarettes, but with no results save a nightmare and a hangover. He scowled at the vodka bottle. He didn't even _like_ vodka.

And he was no closer to finding Chas.

He could barely focus. His eyes hurt, his head banged, his stomach roiled. The best thing for him to do right now would be to have a nice, quiet nap.

Goal and destination in mind, Constantine stood, raising his eyes toward the door and nearly swearing.

Chas was standing in the open door way.

He lurched, his hand slipping on the table top and knocking a pile of carefully balanced books onto the floor. He took his eyes off the doorway for a spilt second, just a flicker up and down, but when he looked back Chas had gone, the door firmly closed.

He lumbered to the doorway, yanking the door open, looking up and down the deserted hallway. Nothing.

A drunken hallucination?

He came back inside, closing the door and resting his head on it.

The shock of seeing, _apparently_ seeing, Chas, so real, so close, made him feel unsteady, the pain in his head growing worse.

He opened his eyes, the fallen pile of books grabbing his attention. Swearing a blue streak, he carefully bent down, picking the books back up and flinging them onto the table, scowling as something got stuck to his fingers. He shook his hand, but the thing was stuck fast, and he blinked, trying to focus.

It was a bright pink post it note scrawled with barely legible handwriting.

_Don't forget loser, midday at Starbucks, Hollywood Boulevard, 12th August. Mac._

Constantine frowned, staring at the message, the book it had fallen from, A Tale of Two Cities, clutched in the other hand.

Chas was supposed to be meeting someone at Starbucks on Hollywood Boulevard today. In about, he checked his watch, half an hour.

Crap.

If Constantine was going to make it he'd have to leave now. There was no way he'd get there in midday traffic; he'd have to take the subway.

It was crazy, he realised as he flung on his coat and left the apartment, heading toward the nearest subway station. He didn't even know who Mac was. How would he even recognise him? Yet he didn't turn around, the hardback book still in one hand. It could lead him to Chas. Maybe there had been some contact between Chas and this Mac.

Maybe he would know where Chas was.

Hollywood Boulevard was, predictably, crowded, and Constantine had to skirt around the groups of gob smacked tourists, taking pictures of the Hollywood Boulevard meets Vine Street intersection, the Hollywood Walk of Fame, Grauman's Theatre, all the things Constantine had never bothered to see, and had no desire to start looking at.

Celebrity look a likes were everywhere, from Michael Jackson to Peter Pan to Catwoman, the tourists flocking round them as if they were the actual real live versions.

Pathetic.

"Excuse me, mister."

Constantine tried to ignore the tugging on his sleeve, continuing to stride through the crowd.

"Please mister, please!"

The tugging increased and Constantine stopped, annoyance clear on his face.

A little kid of maybe nine or ten was staring up at him, brown eyes wide, shining with excitement.

"Mom I got him!" he yelled. "Mom!"

A large, smiling woman materialised from the crowd, a disposable camera in her hand.

"Oh sweetie!" she cried. "So you did! Go on then, pose for the picture."

Constantine blinked. Picture? Just who the fuck did they think he was?

"I think there's been a misunderstanding," he began, trying to be as tactful as he could.

"Nonsense," the woman said. "My son just adores you. Now smile!"

Constantine winced, the flash blinding him.

"Oops!" the woman giggled. "Forgot to turn the flash off. Let's try again."

"Mam," Constantine stepped forward, detangling himself from the little boy. "I'm not a celebrity."

"Oh sweetheart!" The woman's face took on a comical look of tragedy. "Don't you talk like that! You are as good as any of them out there."

"No," Constantine corrected, trying to sound firm and wishing his head would stop pounding. "I am not a celebrity. This is not my job."

"I know, I know! You're The One."

Constantine wondered what the fuck she was talking about. The one what?

"You know hun, you should really wear your dark glasses when you're working. The look just isn't quite right without them."

Constantine was beginning to doubt her sanity.

"Now come on, stand tall!"

The kid grabbed his arm again, and the camera made a little clicking noise.

"Cool!" the kid shouted. "Will you sign my book?"

He held out a little autograph book, the kind with designated spaces for each autograph and the words "My Autograph Book" on the front in gold.

A pen was thrust into Constantine's hand and he stared, having no clue who the hell he was supposed to be.

"My name's Billy," the kid added helpfully.

_Great, but what's mine?  
_

He hesitated, then scribbled something on the page.

"There you go, kid," he muttered, thrusting the book back at him and hightailing it up the street as fast as he could.

Behind him, Billy hugged the book to his chest, staring in wonder at the words written there.

_The One._

Neo was the coolest.

* * *

The Starbucks was, predictably, as crowded as the street outside, and Constantine winced, wishing more than anything he could turn around and walk out again.

How the hell was he supposed to find Mac in all of this?

He surveyed each of the men sitting alone, but none of them looked right, they were all older than Chas, or wearing business suits (who wears a business suit on Hollywood Boulevard?) reading a newspaper. Chas hated the newspaper.

This was a fucking waste of time.

He turned to go, fed up and dispirited, when a slender figure sitting at a stool caught his eye. She was pale and skinny, dark hair cut short, almost boyish, her jeans frayed and ancient. She looked like that actress chick who'd been arrested for shoplifting. But most importantly, she had a book in her hands.

A Tale of Two Cities.

Constantine approached her slowly, circling her from behind, checking her from all angles.

She seemed absorbed in her book, but tensed slightly as Constantine's shadow fell over her.

"You're late loser," she murmured, without turning around.

"Mac," Constantine said.

She did turn then, eyes wide and startled at the unfamiliar voice.

"Who the fuck are you?" she snapped.

"You're waiting for Chas?"

He saw the surprise she tried so hard to cover up.

"What do you know about Chas?"

"My name's John Constantine. I work-"

"I know who you are," she interrupted.

For a moment the tension was sharp, delicate, liable to shatter at any second. Then Mac gesture to the empty stool beside her and the air eased, Constantine finding he could breathe again.

"He talks about you a lot," she said, dipping a lazy finger into her untouched cappuccino.

"He never talked about you," he replied.

"Talked?" she questioned.

She was sharp.

"How long has it been you since you saw him?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "A month or two. Why?"

"He was in a car crash."

Constantine didn't mean to give her the wrong impression, but at his words her face paled dramatically, hands gripping the counter top.

"He was okay," he added quickly. "Was in a coma, had to have some surgery, but fine."

"Sounds it," she replied, voice sharp.

He ignored her tone.

"He was staying with me after the crash, and then he just…left. I've been trying to find

him."

"What did you do to him?" she asked.

Constantine blinked.

"Excuse me?"

"You're the only one I ever knew that could affect him. Not even his bastard parents, after they left. If he left, it must have been something you did."

An unbidden flash of flesh on flesh, harsh, desperate kisses, pleasure and pain mingled in an incomprehensible swirl.

"He was different," he said. "After the accident. He was cold, distant. It was like he wasn't there."

"Did you take him to the doctor?" she asked, in the tone of someone dealing with a world

class idiot.

"Yes," he snapped, annoyed at himself for losing self control.

"And you have no idea where he is now?"

Constantine shook his head.

"I went to his apartment, but his landlord said he hadn't been there since before the accident, he was re renting the room."

He rubbed a hand across his eyes, feeling suddenly so, so weary.

"I'm worried."

It was the first time he'd admitted it to himself since the accident, and saying it gave him a sudden feeling of relief. He, John Constantine, was worried, _concerned, _about another human being. And the sky hadn't fallen.

He felt Mac scrutinising him, then abruptly she held out her hand.

"Eva Mackenzie. Friends call me Mac."

Constantine stared a moment, then accepted the handshake.

"John Constantine. You can call me whatever the hell you want."

Mac grinned.

"I might just hold you to that."

* * *

"Chas and I get together every once in a while. We like to read together. Sort of a mini book club." Mac laughed, embarrassed. "Lame, I know, but it's fun."

They were walking back along the Boulevard, cups of iced coffee firmly in hand.

"We arranged to meet today a couple of months ago, but I knew Chas would forget. He usually does." She took a sip of coffee. "I drive him mad by sticking those post it notes everywhere."

"You haven't been in contact since?"

She shook her head.

"I just presumed he was busy. Tried calling a couple of times but no one was there. Now I know why."

Was it Constantine's imagination, or did she sound slightly bitter?

"Had he been acting strange, before he disappeared?"

No matter how hard he tried, Constantine couldn't shake that last image of Chas, so cold, so unfeeling. He desperately didn't want to be the one that had made Chas like that.

Mac seemed to be considering.

"He had been having those dreams."

Constantine raised an eyebrow.

"What dreams?"

Mac shook her head. "I don't know, he would never say. Just wake up screaming and crying, sweating. Even kicked me out of bed once."

Constantine froze, the implication of the words rattling around in his head, his skull suddenly feeling empty yet heavy at the same time.

Mac wasn't just Chas's friend. She was his _girlfriend_.

Jesus.

"I think they were about war."

"What?"

Constantine's mind was entangled in a picture of Chas with his pretty, slender girlfriend.

Chas had a fucking _girlfriend_.

"The dreams. I think they were about war."

Constantine shook his head, trying to physically remove the image.

"Why?"

She shrugged. "There was this stained glass window in a church he liked to go to sometimes. He always sat by that window, said it reminded him of his nightmares."

"Show me."

Mac raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Right now?"

Constantine nodded, once. "Right now."

The took the subway to the church, a small stone building, Anglican, Constantine noted, half falling down. Inside was hushed and still, a few people sitting in the pews, watching

the choir rehearse.

"_The Lord's my Shepherd I'll not want."_

Constantine closed his eyes, the beautiful soprano soloist's voice flowing over him, her gentle notes trembling in the air.

"_He makes me lie in pastures green."_

Psalm 23. Written to give ultimate comfort, to show the true goodness of God's nature.

"_He leads me by the still, still waters. His goodness will lead me home."_

Constantine closed his mind off, filtering out the sound, the words. He no longer believed in the goodness of God's nature. And he had been led anywhere but home.

Mac led him over to the window she'd described, and he stared up at the stained glass, the bright reds, whites, yellows blurring angrily at him for a moment, before he could focus.

It depicted a scene above the clouds, two armies standing either side of a huge ravine in the sky, one divine, one from hell.

In the ravine was Earth.

Constantine swore, loudly, drawing the angered looks of people in the pews, the choir master looking scandalised.

Mac muttered a quick apology and grabbed his arm, practically dragging him from the church.

"What the hell was that?" she demanded once they were back on the sidewalk. "Don't you have any respect?"

"I need you to remember. Did Chas ever say anything about a War of the Worlds?"

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him.

"If you're about to tell me there's some sort of supernatural explanation for Chas's disappearance, I don't think I want to hear it."

"This is important," Constantine ground out.

"No, okay? No he fucking didn't. He never told me anything. Have you ever considered that he just didn't want to be your slave anymore?"

Constantine clenched his fist, tried to remember that it wasn't considered seemly to punch a girl in front of a church.

"Chas wasn't my slave."

"Like hell he wasn't! You just had to say the word and he would come running. He thought you were the best thing since fucking sliced bread, and you treated him like a piece of gum that got stuck to your shoe and won't come off."

She turned to storm down the street.

"Mac-"

"Just fucking don't okay? I care about Chas. More than I should. More than he cares about me. I _care_ about him. Who do you care about John Constantine? Certainly not Chas. Obviously not God. Do you care about anyone but yourself?"

John didn't try to stop her this time as she walked away, her sneakers making an empty pounding on the sidewalk, each step a flat, angry sound.

He watched her until she turned the corner, her words ringing in his ears.

She had claimed he didn't care about Chas, but that was just the problem, wasn't it?

Because he _did_ care about Chas. He cared about him a little too much.

* * *

Tired and pissed off, Constantine made his way back through the city, choosing to walk over the subway, despite the stuffy, hot sun seeping into his black jacket, making him less than comfortable.

He needed to clear his head, get rid of the last traces of his hangover, think about what Mac had told him.

Try _not_ to think about Chas and Mac in bed together.

It wasn't that he was jealous, because John Constantine didn't get jealous. He _wasn't_ jealous. He was…disturbed. Disturbed that he had slept with Chas when Chas had a girlfriend. Disturbed that Chas hadn't told him. Disturbed that Chas had slept with her.

"Stop it," he growled to himself, causing a passing woman to glance at him oddly, giving him slight berth as she passed him on the sidewalk.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair and across his face, suddenly aware that he needed to shave again. How long had it been? Days? Weeks? Time seemed to be blurring into one long, painful stretch at the moment, he could barely tell when he was asleep and when he was awake.

He thought back to the dream he'd had the night before, and the window Mac had shown him at the church.

How could he have seen that window? How could his subconscious have such a clear picture when he knew he'd never laid eyes on it before?

How was that possible?

Was someone trying to warn him? Would he be somehow a part of this oncoming war?

Why the hell couldn't he work out what was going on?

He crossed the road opposite a Subway, and briefly entertained the idea of stopping to

buy food, then shrugged it off. Who needed to eat?

God, he was hot. What he wouldn't give right now for a little rainfall.

He hated the fucking city.

Next to the Subway was a block of offices, stretching up into the sky, their windows large and paneless, bouncing his reflection back at him. He shook his head, finding amusement in the high rise flats next to the fast food joint. The lawyers could nip out for some food poisoning in between million dollar clients.

He saw the car, reflected in the window, but barely took any notice. It was black and expensive, that was all he could have said.

What happened, happened so quickly that afterwards he might have thought he'd imagined it, that he was going insane, had it not been for all the other, weird, stuff that had been happening to him recently.

One minute he was idly glancing at the reflection of the car in some smarmy suit's window, the next he felt as if he was being propelled backward on a roller coaster, sucked into the car itself, staring at himself through the tinted window. Time seemed to slow, and he stared at himself, stared at himself staring at himself in the car in the office window. Then, like the roller coaster had thrown the switch, he was rushing forward, back into his place on the street, back to staring at the car in the window.

The whole thing only lasted a split second, but Constantine was suddenly, vividly aware that someone in that car was watching him, had some kind of control over him.

And then he turned, and saw the slightest glimpse of a silhouette he'd been searching for.

"Chas!"

He lunged forward, pushing several kids out of the way, ignoring their mother's angered cries as he ran towards the car, moving fluidly despite the traffic.

"Chas!"

He knew it was Chas in there, somehow he just _knew_ it, call it intuition or instinct or whatever. Chas was in that car.

"Chas!"

His lungs were burning, the heat wrapping around him, choking his lungs as a bone grating cough caught him, causing him to pause, hands on his knees, hacking God knows what up into the gutter.

When it had finished, when the eye watering pain and loss of control had subsided, the car was gone, out of sight, taking Chas with it.

But Constantine had something, and that something would bring him one step closer.


	5. In Which All Jump In & Scramble Through

Finally have got the next chapter up. Sorry it's been so long, but I am really lazy when it comes to updates. I think this is my favourite part so far, though be warned, I know nothing about poker. It just seemed likes something Constantine would do…

"_The commonest mistake in history is underestimating your opponent; it happens at the poker table all the time." –General David Shoup_

"I need you to get me everything you can on this licence plate."

Beeman didn't move, the back of his head bent low over his desk.

Constantine scowled, stepping forward and giving Beeman's shoulder a swift, sharp shake.

The English man yelped, jumping a foot in his chair as he came face to face with Constantine.

"Bloody hell!" he cried. "What are you trying to do, give me a bloody heart attack?"

"Didn't hear me come in?" Constantine asked.

Beeman frowned.

"What?" he yelled.

Constantine sighed, reaching out for the source of the problem, plucking an impossibly tiny headphone from Beeman's ear.

"What are you doing?"

Beeman shrugged, taking the headphone back.

"Relaxing," he replied.

Constantine narrowed his eyes, listening to the buzz of music spilling from the earphone.

"Is that the Spice Girls?"

Beeman turned a little pink, muttering shiftily as he hastened to turn off the minute mp3 player lying on his desk.

"What do you want, John?" he asked, his back to Constantine.

"I need a trace on a licence plate." Constantine held out the paper on which he'd written the hastily caught number.

Beeman turned, eyeing the paper.

"What makes you think I can do that?"

Constantine shifted impatiently. "I know you have connections."

"Things aren't as simple as they used to be. It isn't about favours anymore." He squinted at the numbers. "It's not possible."

Beeman turned, as if to dismiss the idea, but Constantine shot out his hand, grasping Beeman's arm, forcing him to listen.

"It's important." Oh, how he _loathed_ to say it. "Please."

Beeman looked at him, considering.

"It'll cost you."

Constantine narrowed his eyes.

"Where?"

"Venezuela."

"No fucking way."

"I've already found one."

"Then why can't you just get it?"

Beeman shifted his eyes slightly.

"It requires certain…skill?"

"What kind of skill?"

"…poker?"

Constantine's hand, still gripping Beeman's arm, tightened to painful.

"No. Fucking. Way."

"Well, I suppose you can't want the licence plate that badly then…"

He let out a little squeak as Constantine's hand tightened again.

"You're good at poker!"

"I don't play anymore."

"It saved our lives once."

"And I haven't played since then."

"Well maybe it's time you relearn."

Beeman's face was flushed, tiny beads of sweat decorating his hairline.

Constantine sighed.

"Where?"

"Fairmont's. Down on fifty fourth. Two hundred dollar buy in."

"Shit," he muttered. He glared at the other man. "You better hope I'm as good as you remember. I need that information by tonight."

Beeman nodded, looking slightly relieved.

"Uh, John?"

"Yes?" he said icily.

"Could you, um, let go of me now?"

Constantine glanced down to his hand, still painfully tight on Beeman's wrist.

He let go and turned to leave.

"Tonight," he called over his shoulder.

"I think you broke my wrist," Beeman called back.

Serve the little asshole right.

Constantine made his way to fifty fourth, only stopping briefly at his apartment to change his shirt and grab a sizeable wad of cash.

He had a feeling he'd be needing it.

The poker game was taking place in the back of an elegant bar filled with smoke and high class drunks, and Constantine pushed back the plush velvet curtain to reveal a circular table with four men sitting round it, lamps turned low, air thick with cigarettes.

Despite himself, he felt a frisson of excitement run through his stomach.

He had always loved poker.

Four sets of eyes turned to him as he entered, but he met only one, those of a man in an elegant pin striped suit, dark moustache brushing an expensive cigar, an air of authority about him.

The power.

"You in charge here?"

The man looked him up and down, then nodded slowly. He gestured to the table.

"Interested?"

Constantine nodded in return. He detected a slight accent. French.

The man raised an eyebrow.

"Two hundred buy in," he said. "We play dirty."

Constantine allowed himself an easy smile. He always loved it dirty.

The man offered him a chair.

"Get this man a drink," he ordered the bar tender, hovering nearby. He held out his hand.

"Jacques Fairmont."

Ah. As in 'Fairmont's'.

Constantine shook his hand. "John Constantine. And a Jack Daniel's."

Fairmont raised his slender eyebrow again.

"Gentlemen, welcome Mr Constantine to the table. A new game."

Several players groaned, one shooting Constantine a particularly poisonous look as he tossed his cards into the centre.

"Your buy in?"

Constantine fished $200 from his pocket and placed it on the table in front of him. The other players did the same.

Fairmont nodded slightly, then shuffled the cards expertly, before dealing them out to each player.

Constantine picked his up, careful to keep his face devoid of any reaction.

The game was on.

* * *

Eyes lowered, Constantine chanced a glance around the table, taking in each of the other player's expression with practiced indifference

They were good, these guys, there was no doubt about that, but Constantine was confident that they weren't _quite_ good enough. He had felt the thrill returning with the first game; the instincts slowly stretching, shaking off the dust and uncurling within him as he remembered the rush, the feel, the concentration that came with the game. By the second he was thrumming with the high, with the sweat and focus and the down right dirtiness that came with poker, moving in his veins as if it had never left, as if it hadn't been years since he had played. He found himself looking, instinctively, for the natural tell tale signs, the way the big guy to his right clenched a fist at a bad hand, but rubbed his fingers together at a good. Poor guy probably didn't realise that he was being read like a book. The way the guy opposite him had a twitchy eye. It was minute, almost imperceptible, but Constantine could see it, twitching away at his cards, faster if he was nervous, slower if he was on top.

Really, it was too easy.

The only one he couldn't get a good read from was Fairmont.

Fairmont was a master, alright. His poker face was perfect, flawless. He had won every

game so far, smirking in satisfaction when Constantine folded, assuming that he wasn't quite up to it, raising an eyebrow every time Constantine ploughed back in, as if questioning his sanity.

But Constantine was no fool.

Each time he folded, he let Jacques Fairmont underestimate him a little more. Fairmont was confident, too confident, which Constantine would make sure was his downfall. He could have wiped the table with Fairmont three times already, but he wanted Fairmont to be sure he couldn't lose, to be sure that Constantine couldn't beat him, before delivering his final blow.

He perused his cards; easily the highest in the game. But Fairmont was still underestimating him.

He sighed.

"I'll fold."

There it was. That fleeting spark of satisfaction in Fairmont's blue eyes, that tell tale smirk that told him Jacques Fairmont thought he was invincible.

_Not for long._

"And that, gentlemen, is a full house, I believe."

Fairmont laid his cards out in the table. Straight in diamonds.

Constantine thought of his royal flush, now buried in the pile, and fought a smirk.

"Are you prepared to play another game, Mr Constantine?" Fairmont laughed. "Or perhaps you have lost enough money today, yes?"

Constantine levelled him with a mild stare.

"I'm in."

Once again, that infuriating smirk.

"Very well. Ray, your turn to deal."

Constantine held Fairmont's eyes as he received his cards, only breaking away to pull out another $200.

Crap, this was costing him.

They went round the circle, each presenting their buy in, then taking a card.

Fairmont, to the left of Ray, smiled a shark's smile.

"I will raise you four hundred dollars."

Inwardly Constantine cringed, but he dutifully coughed up the money. If he didn't win this all back, Beeman was going to be paying him back in fifty dollar instalments for a long, long time.

He selected another card, careful to keep his face blank as he slid it into his hand. He could feel Fairmont's eyes on him.

_Don't give anything away._

They had only been round four times when the bar was raised to a thousand, and Ray folded, closely followed by Big Guy (whose fist was clenched so tight Constantine thought it might be locked like that). A few more rounds, several more raises and

Twitchy Eye followed, leaving only Constantine and Fairmont.

"Hmm, Mr Constantine. I must admit, you are showing more bravado than I expected." Fairmont dipped his head slightly. "I commend you." He smiled. "But it will not save you, I think."

Constantine contemplated his cards. He was getting bored anyway.

"How about we raise the stakes a little?"

Fairmont raised his eyebrow.

"I happen to know you are in possession of a certain…artefact of value which I am interested in owning."

Fairmont tilted his head questioningly.

"Artefact?"

Constantine allowed an easy smile to cross his face.

"Venezuela."

Fairmont's eyes narrowed.

"And now we get to the true reason of your presence here. I don't suppose I need to tell you exactly what the worth of that particular…artefact is."

Constantine shrugged.

"Well, I wouldn't have just asked for it."

"Ah but you did, Mr Constantine. That is precisely what you have done. You presume to march into my bar and dupe me out of one of my rare collection. You are either very desperate or very stupid."

He studied Constantine for a moment, and Constantine unconsciously held his breath.

He _had_ to get this. He _had_ to get to Chas.

"Very well." Fairmont clapped his hands together. "If you win," his expression indicated that this was unlikely "I will give you Venezuela. But the question is, if you lose, what will you give me?"

His eyes gave a very definite sweep of Constantine's body.

Fucking hell. Was nobody straight these days?

"You can have anything you want," he replied, voice steady, meeting the challenge though in reality he wanted to run as fast he could in the other direction.

Fairmont smiled a satisfied smile. The cat that got the cream.

Constantine had better be as good as he thought he was.

"A deal then. I raise you $2500."

Great.

He pushed the obligatory money into the centre.

"$2500."

Fairmont's smile widened.

Constantine didn't react. _Let him think he's on top until the very last moment._ He was looking forward to seeing that self-assured expression drop like a stone the moment he revealed his cards.

"Last chance, Mr Constantine."

"I never back out of a bet."

"As you wish."

Fairmont revealed his cards. It wasn't a bad hand, actually. It _should_ have been the winning hand. Should have been, but wasn't.

Constantine laid his own cards on the table.

It was quite comical really, the disbelief on Fairmont's face, followed soon by barely concealed rage.

"I believe that makes Venezuela mine. And all this."

He reached for the stack of money sitting on the table, patting it into a tidy pile and slipping it into his pocket.

He looked expectantly at Fairmont.

For a second he thought the French man might explode with his anger, but after a moment's struggle he brought himself visibly under control.

"Of course. A deal, after all, is a deal."

He moved around the small room, graceful, composed as he reached into a box on a high shelf. For a moment his hand hovered inside, as if reluctant to go through with it, then he extracted a small package wrapped in brown paper.

"Venezuela."

Constantine took the light package, slipping it carefully into his inner jacket pocket.

"And that, gentlemen," his tone held a slight mocking note "is my cue to leave."

He turned towards the curtain, but the careful voice of Fairmont stopped him.

"One moment, Mr Constantine."

He hesitated, suddenly keenly aware that Ray and Big Guy were between him and the exit.

"I do not think it is quite fair that we allow you to parade in here, cheat us out of our money and a worthy artefact and then walk out empty handed. It seems only right that we should…repay you in some way."

Definitely not good.

"There's no need."

Constantine made for the curtain, but Big Guy's arm shot out, hand wrapping around his throat, Ray pulling his arms behind him.

Shit.

Fairmont came around Ray, standing between Big Guy and Constantine, who was having a hard time breathing. A carefully manicured finger reached out, running gently across Constantine's cheek.

"Such confidence, such arrogance. It is beautiful, non?"

He breathed in deeply.

"I can smell it on you. You believe you can conquer the world. Your power. It makes me dizzy with lust. With want."

His hand moved around Constantine's face, caressing his chin.

"You are so very beautiful."

He leaned forward, thin lips pressing against Constantine's mouth, which was still struggling to draw breath. Disgust welled within him as he felt Fairmont's tongue, thin like his lips, probing, trying to force entry.

A sudden anger, raw, red flew through him. He would not allow Fairmont to touch him like that.

With a growl, Constantine jerked forward, pressing onto Big Guy's hand, opening his mouth to accept Fairmont's tongue then biting down on it. Hard.

Fairmont let out a howl, pulling sharply backwards and flinging his hands upon his injured tongue, elbowing Big Guy in the face. Big Guy's grip loosened, and Constantine threw his head backwards, knocking hard against Ray's forehead. It was Ray's turn to howl, releasing Constantine's hands, and Constantine punched Fairmont in his bleeding mouth with all his might. Fairmont went down, pinning Big Guy beneath him, and Constantine turned, just in time to see and duck a punch from Twitchy Eye, who had come rushing to the rescue. He latched onto Twitchy Eye's waist and propelled him across the room, crashing him into the poker table, which folded under their weight, cards scattering everywhere. Twitchy Eye jerked his knee upwards, towards Constantine's groin, but Constantine sensed the move, rolling to the right and lashing out with his foot, catching Twitchy in the stomach, causing his head to snap back against the floor.

Twitchy was down, but Big Guy was lumbering to his feet, Ray recovering from the knock to his head. Constantine pulled himself to his feet, tripped over a table leg and caught his balance, then was forced to step back as the two thugs advanced.

His back hurt and there was raw, throbbing pain in his head; he must have hit when he fell. He wasn't sure that he could win this fight.

Big Guy roared, diving towards him, and Constantine pushed his doubt aside, reverting to basic animal instinct: survival of the fittest.

He met him head on, ducking the fast punches and delivering one of his own, upwards, to the underneath of the jaw. Big Guy's head went back with a sickening crack, and his eyes blinked dazedly for a moment before he slid bonelessly to the floor.

Constantine didn't have time to contemplate his victory; Ray was upon him, wrapping his arm around Constantine's throat and punching him hard in the stomach. Constantine choked, winded, as he slumped against Ray, unable to draw breath. He felt Ray's arm tighten, and, through the spots dancing in front of his eyes, felt a stab of annoyance. What was it with people trying to strangle him today?

Reaching into one of his coat pockets, his fingers scrabbled over various shapes before coming to rest on a thin, sharp dagger Beeman had given him. Coated in steel from the armour of a Crusader, it was meant to give a demon a rather nasty shock.

Constantine figured it would work on regular humans just as well.

He extracted the knife, drawing his arm back and plunging it into the one wrapped around his throat. Ray cried out, pulling his arm back and Constantine flipped the knife, raising it above Ray's head and bringing the handle down on the top of his skull.

Ray's eyes rolled back in their sockets, and he too went down.

Constantine stepped back, slipping the knife back into his pocket. On the floor, Fairmont was watching him with wide eyes, blood pooling on the wood from his open mouth.

"You are a monster," he whispered.

Constantine shrugged.

"Yeah? And you're a pervert."

He leant down to Fairmont, placing his face very close.

"You might want to remember what happens to perverts the next time you try and rape someone."

He turned and walked from the bar, back ram rod straight, slamming the door behind him.

It was only along the street that he let his posture slip, staggering slightly as the pain in his back and head caused a wave of dizziness. Shit, he probably had concussion.

He hailed a taxi, woozily giving the driver his address as he clambered into the backseat.

He struggled to keep his eyes open as the adrenaline began to wear off, his hands shaking uncontrollably as his eye lids drooped. He had to stay awake. If he was concussed then falling asleep was bad, very bad. He had to stay...if only his eyelids weren't so damn heavy…he had won one fight that day, but this one he could only lose as his conscious was dragged from being into blank nothingness.

* * *

He groaned, swimming through the murky layers of awareness as he began to wake, the throbbing pain in his head only slightly mollified by a cool, damp cloth wiping across his forehead.

His eye lids fluttered open, and he was struck by a very strong sense of déjà vu.

Gabriel was sitting by his bed, her hand holding the cloth that dabbed at his head, her hair loose around her face. She looked softer and more forgiving than she had the last time they met.

"Thought you didn't make house calls," he growled.

She smiled, a surprisingly gentle smile for Gabriel.

"You needed someone to take care of you," she replied, as if, on their previous meeting, she hadn't been ready to blast him down into hell for his sins of sodomy.

"And you were the best they could come up with?"

She laughed.

"Oh, you never change, do you?"

"Why bother. It's been working pretty well for me for the last thirty years."

"Hmm." Gabriel cast a critical eye over his injuries. "Not too well though."

He gave a one shouldered shrug, stifling the surprising gasp of pain it brought.

"Your friend seemed quite concerned," she continued, ignoring his poor display at macho.

"Beeman?"

"Small fellow. English. Rather nervous?"

Constantine nodded. "That's him."

"Yes well, it's him you have to thank for getting you up here. Apparently you passed out in your taxi on the way here. He paid the driver and managed, not entirely sure how, to drag you up here. He kept muttering that it was his fault. Something about Venezuela."

Constantine raised his head, gesturing to his jacket which was slung over a chair.

"The inside pocket."

Gabriel went to it, extracting the little brown package. She raised an eyebrow, then proceeded to unwrap it, producing a small, cylindrical tourist souvenir which depicted Venezuelan landscape on it, and made the sound of a local animal when turned upside down.

"Apparently Venezuela is very rare."

Gabriel set it carefully down on the table.

"Your friend is very strange."

Constantine shrugged, fighting a hiss of pain. Beeman _was_ strange, who could deny it?

"I know how I got here, but what about you? You don't strike me as the type to have bedside manner."

Gabriel allowed a smile.

"I sensed you were injured, and realised that you may need my help," she replied simply.

Constantine wasn't buying it, not for an instant, but Gabriel obviously wasn't telling. And he had more important matters to deal with.

"Did Beeman leave me anything? Some paper, some information? A message."

Gabriel nodded, suddenly solemn, and handed him a folded piece of paper.

He opened it, holding his breath.

_John, The car was licensed to a Josiah Reynolds, address Apartment 313, Redcar Building, 78 Rougier Avenue. I ran a search on him, but couldn't find anything else. Be careful, it looks more than a little suspicious._

He stared at the information read it once, twice, allowed a slight smile to grace his lips.

He had something, finally.

"You're going after him, then?"

He had almost forgotten Gabriel was there, but now he could feel the disapproval, almost coming off her in waves.

"Of course I'm going after him."

He kicked off the bedcovers, relieved to find he was still wearing his shirt and pants.

She sighed.

"John, don't be absurd. You're not fit to be running around after anyone."

"I have to find him."

She placed a firm hand on his chest.

"At least wait until morning. You're not going to do anyone any good charging around like this."

He fought her for a second, then collapsed back in bed, allowed her to pull the covers back over him. He did still feel as of someone had hit him over the head with a hammer.

"You still haven't told me why you're really here," he said, wishing his voice didn't sound quite so sulky.

She nodded.

"You're right. I haven't been entirely honest with you."

He waited. Gabriel would take her time. She always did.

"I'm here because we need your help."

"We?"

Gabriel waved an impatient hand.

"Yes, we, as in the Divine lot."

Oh, he really wasn't going to like this.

"I trust you have heard the rumours of the upcoming…shall we say…war?"

He nodded slowly, senses suddenly alert.

"I've heard about it, yeah."

"Well then, you'll realise why we need your help. We need everyone we can get."

"You don't need me."

Gabriel looked surprised.

"I assure you, John, we do."

"No. You don't. This war is between Heaven and Hell. Angels and Demons. The Divine and the Damned. This war is being fought above Earth, over Earth. Not on it. You can't need me."

"Well, you're different. You know this."

"What are you hiding from me, Gabriel? What is it you're trying to do?"

"I'm not trying to do anything!" She was angry now, her eyes spitting a golden fire. "I am merely trying to tell you that you need to focus all your energies on this war. This war that may decide the outcome for the Human Race! Are you so cold that you do not even care for your own people?"

He ignored the last part of her statement. Her words stirred something in him. He knew why she was here.

"You're trying to keep me away from Chas."

She regarded him coolly.

"You are being paranoid."

He shook his head.

"No, I'm not. You just said it. 'Focus all my energies'. Focus them away from Chas. That's why you're here. You don't give a fuck about the war. You just want to keep me from him." His eyes widened in sudden realisation. "It was you, wasn't it? You changed him, after the accident. You made him cold, dead, you changed everything between us. You drove him away!"

"That's enough."

He stopped, suddenly aware that he was flushed, his heart racing in an angry beat, hands clenched at his sides.

"Do you really think I would turn you to such a sin with another man? I did not drive Chas away." She smiled nastily. "You only have yourself to thank for that little piece of genius." She sighed. "It is true, however, that I am trying to keep you from him."

He opened his mouth to protest, but she held up a hand.

"Please, John. You have to listen to me. If you go to him I fear it will be grave danger for you both. It won't matter if we win the war, for the two of you will be the world's undoing."

He shook his head vehemently.

"I don't believe that."

"You must. I speak the truth."

He looked at her.

"What have you seen?" He grabbed her hand. "I know you've seen something. I know you know the future. You have to tell me!"

She pulled her hand away.

"I have to tell you nothing. And I do not know the future. No one can tell you the future but Him, and that is not His way."

Constantine really, really felt like punching something.

"I won't stop. I don't care what you say. I have to find him."

She touched his cheek gently, unnatural sorrow in her grey eyes.

"It will destroy you both."

He closed his eyes, the feel of her fingers so gentle against his cheek.

For once he just wished he could let it go, let everything go. He wished he didn't have this burden, this huge responsibility. He wished he could just…stop. But that was what had got him into this mess in the first place, wasn't it? He couldn't just stop. He had to keep going, just like the rest of the world.

Gabriel's touch disappeared, and when he opened his eyes she had gone.

He was alone.

"_It will destroy you both."_

Chas was already destroyed, a shell of his former self.

Constantine couldn't continue to let him live like that. He wouldn't.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow he would go to Josiah Reynold's apartment.

Tomorrow he would find Chas.


	6. In Which He Finds He Is Not Invincible

So, am finally updating, after about a year (man, why do I always exaggerate?), this chapter is a bit shorter, but it gets more and more interesting…actually, I'm only saying that to make you read it. r&r!

"'_Oh Goosey Loosey,' cheaps Chicken Licken. 'The sky is falling down. We're off to tell the king.'" –Traditional Folk Tale_

Tomorrow, it turned out, came a lot sooner than he would've liked.

His head still hurt, but at least his back was alright now, he deciphered as he dragged himself out of bed.

He stood, blinking blearily and wishing for a cigarette, then forced himself in the direction of the bathroom, into a cold bath and then out again, shivering slightly as he dragged a razor over his stubble.

It occurred to him, as he yanked on a change of fresh clothes, that he hadn't taken this much pride in his appearance for days, and wondered if it was the prospect of seeing

Chas again that made him take such care.

He pushed the thought firmly to the back of his mind. It was only a temporary solution, he knew, and he would have to face the messy, complicated, _growing_ feelings he was having for Chas sooner or later, but right then later looked a lot more attractive than sooner. Much later.

He took a taxi to Rougier Avenue, where the tall, upper class apartment blocks sparkled in the summer sun, fancy cars whizzing past, pastel dressed wives peering through windows whilst smart suits strode along the pavements below.

This was the sort of street that Constantine felt immediately conspicuous in, as if he had 'I Don't Belong' tattooed on his forehead for all those who _did_ belong to gawk and stare at.

Jesus. How did Chas end up here?

The taxi pulled up outside of Redcar Building and Constantine paid the driver then climbed out, squinting up at the suddenly seemingly ominous building before him.

What if Chas wasn't there? What if it was just another dead end, leading to nowhere?

He steeled himself, then pushed open the doors, waited for the elevator which took him to the third floor, moving down the hallway until he reached apartment 313.

313. Another thirteen. Great.

He took a deep breath, then knocked.

Inside, there were muffled shouts, a brief pause then footsteps pounding towards him, the door suddenly flying open.

A tall, lean man stood before him, skin pale, eyes slightly glazed over, pupils large and glassy yet regarding Constantine with suspicion nevertheless.

"Can I help you?"

The speech was very slightly slurred. The guy was high.

"I'm looking for Chas Kramer. I was told he was staying here."

For a moment the guy's face remained lost in that slightly dazed look, then comprehension dawned and his eyes narrowed, awareness snapping into him like a switch had been flipped.

"Constantine," he snarled.

For Constantine, a veil had been lifted. One moment he was staring at some random

guy's face, the next the skin had peeled away, revealing ripe, rotten flesh, the eye sockets burning with a bright, hellish fire, the teeth, sharp, deadly, peering from shrunken, shrivelled lips.

Not high. Just deliriously happy.

"Half breed," he hissed.

The half breed smiled an ugly, mocking smile.

"So, you've come for him at last."

"Where is he?"

The half breed leant an arm casually across the doorway. The flesh upon it was putrid, the clothes hanging in dirty tatters. Constantine blinked, and the true image disappeared, the façade of a young man returning.

"He doesn't want to see you," the half breed said.

"Let me the fuck in!"

Constantine shoved at him, but the half breed was stronger, his hand forcing Constantine back, his powers, bestowed to him by the devil himself, no challenge against Constantine's mere humanity.

"Leave, mortal. You are not wanted here."

Constantine snarled, but backed away. Giving a demon an excuse to kill him was going to help no one.

He went back down in the elevator, then walked across the street, standing in the doorway of the building a few doors down. The guy had been wearing a suit. He had to have a job of some sort; most half breeds did these days.

He didn't have to wait long.

Only thirty minutes later the guy came out of the building, looking around suspiciously as if expecting Constantine to still be hanging around.

Constantine shrank further back into the doorway, willing himself invisible.

The half breed paused and for a horrifying moment Constantine thought the bastard might be able to smell him, then the moment passed and the half breed hailed a cab, slipping neatly into the backseat.

Constantine watched it drive off, then waited ten minutes more, in case it was a trap.

Nothing.

He cautiously ventured from his hiding place, then crossed the street again, ignoring the odd look the doorman gave him as he entered the building for the second time that morning.

Outside apartment 313, he hesitated, the thought suddenly occurring to him that Chas might not be alone, that there might be more half breeds in there.

Only one way to find out.

He knocked, and from somewhere inside a murmur of "Just a minute." reached his ears.

Chas's voice.

Then the door opened and Chas was _there_, standing in front of him, and John had never been one for sentiments, but he found himself wanting to reach out and touch Chas, just to make sure he was real.

Chas smiled slowly.

"I should have known you would be back."

There was a slight sneer to his tone, the eyes cold as they regarded him.

Constantine's illusion came crashing down around him as he remembered that this wasn't Chas, not the _real_ Chas.

He had been so desperate to find him, he had forgotten what it was that he would find.

"We need to talk."

Without waiting for an answer, he pushed past Chas into the rich, swanky apartment.

"Nice place you got here."

Chas shrugged.

"It works. What do you want?"

Well, no one ever said it would be easy.

"What do I want? What do I fucking want? Fucking hell, Chas, I've been searching the whole fucking city for you for the last three weeks. What do you think I fucking want?"

Chas raised an eyebrow.

"You came all this way for sex?"

Constantine felt as if he'd been slapped.

"God, what do you think I am?"

"Well I'm not entirely sure why else you would bother looking for me. I made our positions quite clear last time we spoke."

"'Last time we spoke'? Last time we spoke you were fucking running out on me."

"It isn't like we'd set up house, Constantine. It was just sex."

"Cut the crap, Chas. There's something more going on here and we both know it."

Chas gazed at him, expression serene despite Constantine's raving.

"Like what? Me deciding that I don't need a human crutch anymore. That I'm better than you? It doesn't take a genius to figure that out."

And that was when the doubt crept in.

Constantine had been so fixated on finding Chas he had never stopped to consider whether or not he _should_. Whether Chas walking out of his life was the best thing that could happen for Chas. That Chas was better off without him.

That he had somehow managed to develop feelings for someone who really didn't give a flying fuck.

And that was when the anger came.

Not anger at Chas, but anger at himself. Anger for being weak, being stupid. Anger that he had let his guard, let himself, down. Anger that he had become vulnerable.

Anger that he needed to take out on something. Or someone.

His fist was sailing through the air before he even realised what he was doing, connecting painfully with Chas's jaw, catching the edge of his mouth, a spurt of blood bursting forth as Chas went down, the force of the blow sending him flying backwards.

Shit.

Constantine stared for a moment, unable to believe that he had just hit Chas, _Chas_. Chas who was now kneeling on the floor, cradling his bloody jaw.

Shit.

Constantine dropped to one knee beside him, reaching a tentative hand to his shoulder, and at the touch Chas turned, hair falling briefly in his eyes at the movement.

And John's breath was stolen from him, every bone in his body limp and useless as he met that gaze.

Chas was Chas.

He could see it in Chas's eyes, before so cool and emotionless, now filled with pain and confusion, blinking up at Constantine as if not really seeing him.

"John?" he whispered.

Constantine wanted to fling out his arms, hold Chas, breathe in his scent.

But he just knelt there, stiff, unmoving, unable to really, truly believe it.

Chas reached out a shaking hand, his fingers brushing John's cheek, and John turned into the touch, almost unconsciously, his lips ghosting over Chas's palm.

Chas let out a sudden cry, and then launched himself at John, wrapping his arms round his neck, kissing him with desperate fervour, John's arms reaching up to hold him, winding around him, breathing in his scent.

They were acting like estranged lovers.

John pulled back, the thought cutting through him, reminding him that something still wasn't right, that he still had to work out exactly what the hell was going on.

"Chas," he gasped. "What's happening to you?"

Chas's eyes were fearful as they gazed up at him, his grip still painfully tight.

"You have to help me," he said urgently. "You have to get me out of here before-"

The door slamming made them both jump, Chas's arms dislodging from Constantine's

neck, and Constantine's eyes glanced up to register briefly the presence of a woman before flying back to Chas.

Who was smirking at him.

Constantine pulled back sharply, the touch that had only moments before felt so warm now sending icy shivers across his skin.

This wasn't Chas. He had been tricked.

"What is going on here?"

He snapped his gaze to the newcomer, the woman, who stood before them, eyes narrowed at the sight before her.

Chas rose slowly, leaving Constantine on his knees before them.

He stood, suddenly aware of how vulnerable he felt.

John Constantine was not supposed to feel vulnerable.

"What are you doing in my apartment?"

Her voice was sharp, commanding, but at the same time beautiful, enticing.

He found himself unable to look away from her, almost entranced.

She was small and slender, with pale, smooth skin and wide blue eyes, almost ethereal in appearance. Her blonde hair, twisted up neatly at the back of her head was fine and shimmered slightly in the light from the windows, her fitted black suit emphasising every curve, every lift of her body.

A series of images pistoned through his mind, her legs, flawless, entangled with his own, her firm breasts cupped in his hands, her mouth open in cries of pleasure as she twisted beneath him.

He blinked, and the images were gone.

The woman smirked at him slightly, as if knowing what he was thinking.

"Chas." She strode past him, placing a protective hand on Chas's shoulder. "Are you alright?"

Chas nodded slowly, dead eyes on Constantine's face.

"Constantine and I were just getting…reacquainted."

That little asshole.

The woman turned to him.

"So this is the famous John Constantine."

Her eyes travelled down his body, and the images assaulted him again, clearer this time.

She raised an eyebrow.

He felt an unnatural flush rise around his neck.

"I'm taking him home," he said, stepping forward, as if he would pluck Chas from her very grasp.

She laughed, a rich, beautiful sound.

"Oh this is definitely John Constantine. Striding in here, thinking he can take anything he wants." Her hand tightened on Chas's shoulder. "Things that don't belong to him."

"Chas is not a thing. He's a person. He doesn't _belong_ to anyone."

"Yet here you are, proposing to take him away." She shook her head, sorrowfully. "I just can't have that."

Constantine felt impatience begin to get the better of him.

"Look lady, I don't have time for this crap. Whatever you've done to him-"

"Whatever _I've_ done?" She tutted softly. "You are so quick to blame others, aren't you?

What about what you've done Constantine? What about what you were _doing_ with him?"

He winced, yet was unable to look away.

Christ, she sounded like Gabriel.

"Who the hell are you?"

She affected surprise.

"I'm amazed that you haven't worked it out yet. No matter, you will soon enough." She leant towards him, her mouth close to his ear. "For now you may call me Zariel."

The name stirred something in him; it crawled across the edge of his mind, flitting across his memory, but before he could fully grasp it, he felt the shock of her tongue, brief and wet, against his earlobe.

She pulled away, and he stared at her in disbelief, watching as she skimmed her tongue over the edge of her top lip.

Whatever it was he had almost had, it was gone.

He tore his eyes away, and his gaze fell to her hand, still tight on Chas's shoulder. Between the thumb and first finger there was a delicate tattoo of a lily, an elegant, simple white flower attached to a green vine which veered under her thumb and snaked around her wrist, disappearing under the sleeve of her jacket. For a moment he thought he caught a glimpse of red under there, but then she moved her hand and the impression was gone.

"That's enough," he said trying to keep his voice firm, trying not to let her know how much she had unsettled him. "I'm taking Chas home."

"This is his home now."

She took a step toward him, keeping herself between him and Chas.

"You have outstayed your welcome Constantine."

He shook his head stubbornly.

"I'm not going without him."

A look of pity flitted across her face.

"Poor, poor John. You are blinded by your feelings. Can't you see that he doesn't need you anymore? Are you really that pathetic that you try and cling to something that never existed in the first place?"

He felt that flush again, as he heard the truth in her words.

Still, he couldn't believe that that moment with Chas had been an entire act, there must have been something of the old Chas in there. There must be.

"I want to hear it from him."

She sighed, a resigned sigh, resigned to his pain.

"Very well."

She stepped aside, and John stared at Chas, imploring him with his eyes.

_Please. Please just come back to me._

"I don't need you anymore John. I've moved past you. It was just sex."

Chas's eyes were cold, flat, dead. Emotionless.

Constantine turned to leave, and as he did the world tilted in a dizzying rush, his head spinning as his body froze. For a moment he was staring at himself. Staring at himself walking away, and the feeling of despair that rose in him burnt his throat, tasted sharp and bitter and painful. Then the world righted itself and he was walking towards the door, that bitterness still raw in his mouth.

His step faltered slightly, the shock of that split second coursing through him.

He turned, eyes seeking out Chas, trying to make sense of it, but was intercepted by Zariel, who once more stood between them.

As his eyes met her mesmerising blue ones, he was again assaulted by the images, so real he could practically feel her beneath him, surrounding him.

Her smile told him that she knew exactly what was going through his mind.

He walked away, closing the door behind him, further from Chas than he'd ever been.

_

* * *

He was in bed with himself again, watching himself as he gasped in pleasure, feeling his own hands upon him, hearing the words come from his mouth, the words that didn't sound like him at all._

"_John, I'm not me."_

_The bed fell away beneath him, and he was kneeling on the floor, staring at himself staring back at him, eyes wide._

"_You have to help me," he heard himself whisper, but again the voice didn't sound like him, and himself just stared at him, silently, making no move to help, to reach out._

"_John," he heard himself say, voice louder, angry. "Why won't you fucking help me?"_

_He felt the floor spinning under them, then cracking, a huge hole appearing between them, and in that hole flames leapt up at him, great tongues of fire which burnt him, painful, flesh sizzling._

"_John!" he cried. "John please. John!"_

_He leant over the gap, desperate to reach himself, to reach safety, but then he was falling, falling down into that hole and he saw two armies, one bright and shining, the other fiery and rotting, and below them sat Earth, and he was falling, falling…_

"Shit!"

Constantine half leaped, half fell out of bed, knowing, even as he did it, that he was patting desperately at flames that weren't there, even though the smell of burnt flesh was still in his nostrils.

He took a few deep breaths and forced himself to calm down.

It was just another dream. Another fucking dream.

He'd been having them for weeks now, ever since Chas had left, and each time they felt so strange, so real…almost as if he _was_ Chas.

And those images of the war. Could Gabriel have been telling the truth? Could he actually be important in this whole thing?

He sighed, rubbing a hand across his eyes.

The trouble was, he didn't know what the dreams meant. They could be vitally important.

Or they could just be his fucked up subconscious.

And he only knew one person who was really good with dreams.

He glared at his pale faced reflection in the scratty mirror on the wall.

"This is turning out to be one hell of a night."

* * *

"I didn't expect to see you again so soon."

Constantine stood uncomfortably in Midnite's office, aware of the witch doctor's keen gaze on him.

"This isn't exactly a social call," he replied dryly. "I've been dreaming."

"We all dream, John. It isn't something to be ashamed of."

Constantine scowled.

"Don't fuck around, okay? I've been having theses weird dreams, memories, vision type things."

Midnite leant forward in his desk chair, curiosity peaked. It wasn't everyday that John Constantine came to him with dreams.

"About what?"

Constantine shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. He hated talking about this sort of thing.

"Mainly about me…and Chas." He winced slightly, realising how that sounded.

Midnite raised an eyebrow, but only gestured for him to continue.

"I keep remembering stuff we did, but it's like our positions are reversed. It's like I'm him. And it's not just happening at night, either."

Midnite looked _really_ interested now.

"I keep getting sort of visions, triggered by stuff I'm looking at."

"Visions of you as Chas?"

Constantine nodded.

"I guess they're more memories than visions, but then sometimes it's instantaneous, and I can see myself looking at him, right there, in the present."

Midnite smiled, looking suddenly smug.

"What you are experiencing, John, is nothing more than a classic physic connection."

Constantine blinked. A physic connection…with Chas?

"That's not possible."

"You don't believe in physics?"

"Yeah, I believe in physics. I just don't believe that Chas and I have a physic connection," he snapped, aware that his voice was unnecessarily defensive.

"Why not," Midnite replied reasonably. "You have had sex with him, after all."

Constantine opened his mouth, then abruptly closed it again. How was it everyone in the world seemed to know his personal business?

"That has nothing to do with it," he responded finally.

"Ah, but it does. Sex is the most intimate two people can be with each other. It was once described as the brushing of soul against soul. The perfect way to form such a connection."

"That's crap," Constantine growled. "Perfect strangers have sex all the time, and they don't form any fucking connection."

"But you and Chas are not perfect strangers, are you?" Midnite countered. "You know each other well, are friends. Dare I say even more?"

Why couldn't the world just leave him alone?

"It isn't like that," he said, a little too quickly.

Midnite regarded him for a moment, but didn't push the issue.

"As you say." When he continued, his voice was very slightly gentler. "He has been changed, hasn't he?"

Constantine snapped his head up in surprise, and Midnite nodded solemnly.

"I know more than you think I do, John. And it's not always because I like to be at the top of the information ladder."

Constantine resisted a strong urge to then duck his head.

"I know Chas has been different, and that you have been searching for him." He sat back in his chair, looking thoughtful. "Great mystery surrounds this change. I cannot see a reason for it. As if it is being deliberately concealed." He looked hard at Constantine. "You must tread carefully."

Constantine stared at the papers on Midnite's desk, remembering the vision he had had of Chas's business card.

"He's helping me," he said suddenly. "He's helping me to find him. The visions I had, they weren't just random." He was almost talking to himself, Midnite forgotten. "The business card, the car. In the dream he tells me it's not him, that he's not himself. He showed me the dream of the battle, from the window. And Mac…" He hesitated, wondering where Mac fitted into the picture. "He was standing in my doorway, or at least I thought he was, and it made me knock the books over. That's how I found the post it note. He was trying to lead me to something. The card showed me his address, which led me to the computer. The post it note led me to Mac who showed me the window. The car led me to Chas himself. He's helping me."

He looked at Midnite then, and the witch doctor recognised the steely determination in the other man's eyes.

"He's still in there. Inside that…thing which is impersonating him, my Chas is still alive." He didn't notice the possessive slip, but Midnite smiled slightly. "I'm going to get him back. I don't care what it takes."

"It could be mind control," Midnite suggested.

Constantine nodded, considering.

"But why would anyone want Chas? What would they want him for?"

Midnite regarded him carefully.

"I can think of one thing for which Chas would be very useful."

Constantine turned to him.

"What?"

Midnite's smile was neither pleasant nor unpleasant. It was sad almost, sad and resigned and understanding, all at once. The smile of a man who does not want to say what he has to say, but must say it anyway.

"To get to you, John. To get to you."


	7. In Which He Screws Up Badly

Warnings: slash. Don't like it? Don't read it.

Disc: I don't own it.

a/n. sorry it's taken me about a year to update. What can I say? I'm lazy.

"_True magic is neither black nor white. It's both because nature is both, loving and cruel, all at the same time.__" –The Craft_

Constantine was sitting in his apartment.

Waiting.

For a physic message.

The thought made him growl out aloud. He was _not_ sitting there waiting for a physic message. He wasn't sure he even believed that he and Chas had a connection. Those things could all just be coincidences. Sure, it also meant that he was going a little crazy, but you win some you lose some. So he wasn't waiting for any sort of message. He was just…sitting.

God, he was going to go mad, just sitting here. He had to find a way to help Chas, but he wasn't sure how. If Chas really was being controlled then John was useless unless he knew what he was being controlled by. Without knowing what he was up against, he was helpless.

Unless…

His eyes fell on Chas's books, still stacked up in piles on the table.

He leant over the tale, aiming for a particular stack, which he tugged towards him, discarding the unwanted books onto the floor as he searched.

There it was, an old, tattered, thick tome that was covered in burn marks, the cover peeling, a suspicious, dark red stain decorating one corner.

The writing on the front was ancient Greek, a language now lost to many, and simply read "Enchantments".

He remembered being surprised when he had found it among Chas's things; it was an ancient and rare text which, if genuine, could wield terrible and wonderful results. Filled with curses, hexes, cures, spells and other oddities, it was considered one of those base magic books which were always, uncannily right.

He opened it now, sweeping a dead spider from inside the cover, carefully perusing the contents.

Mind control.

He skimmed the text, skipping the pages on (witch hazel), a plant commonly used in mind control, hypnotism and skilful manipulation. He had a feeling he was dealing with something a little more complex than those.

He sat in silence for long minutes, reading, re reading, then re reading again just to make sure he had understood.

Finally he closed the book, and pushed it back on the table.

According to the book, mind control was more an actual state of mind than anything, which was why the simpler methods of hypnotism and manipulation worked so well.

But there were also more complicated, more dangerous methods.

These were considered almost as semi possessions; something getting into the mind and attacking the conscious, reducing the victim to a state of uncertainty and confusion, weakening their self assurance so they wouldn't resist when their mind was actually taken over. This process could take weeks or days, depending on the strength of the force trying to break in, but they had to have a window to get into first. Bouts of depression, grief and near death experiences were the most common.

The problem with freeing the mind was that the victim could become confused and have formed an attachment to their captor, in which case when the presence was torn from them they went, quite simply, insane.

Constantine blew out a slow breath.

The book didn't have a way to actually free the mind. It suggested calling up a Grinora, a guardian of free will, to find the answer.

Well, he supposed he'd better go and find some kittens.

* * *

Only in Los Angeles could you find a 24 hour pet shop, Constantine thought, some time later, as he struggled up the stairs with a box of squirming, mewling kittens.

Well, sort of 24 hour.

The shop owner hadn't exactly been thrilled to have Constantine bang his door down at 8pm and demand a load of kittens, but Constantine had paid him well (flushed from his success at poker) and the guy had pretty much shut up and done whatever was asked of him.

Now, surrounded by a carefully drawn chalk circle with the box just outside and aware that it had been some time since he had attempted a summoning, Constantine closed his eyes and hoped that this would work.

He started chanting, quietly in Latin, the words of the summoning spell, feeling the air sharpen around him, almost crackling with sudden electricity. He could smell the dried thyme and lavender, burning in careful little bundles all around the circle. He raised his voice a little, the hairs on the back of his neck rising as a sudden breeze gusted through his apartment. The candle flames flickered, the scents of the dried herbs wavering. He clenched his fists at his side, then immediately opened them out again, palms flat, the hennaed symbols drawn on his hands clear and unmarked.

He was shouting now, the wind roaring around him, though the windows remained tightly closed, his words barely reaching his own ears, the pages of Chas's books whipping back and forth, the noise deafening, consuming.

Then it stopped.

Constantine hardly dared open his eyes, though part of already knew the spell had worked from the slightly rank, sour smell that had invaded his apartment, in case he was wrong, in case he had failed again.

_Open your eyes, Constantine. Open them._

He snapped his eyes open, momentarily blinded by the darkness of the failed electricity.

"John Constantine," a voice grunted.

He could see it then, the Grinora, a great demon with flesh the colour (and odour) of rotting meat; greeny grey but with a touch of red. It was huge, at least twice as tall as Constantine, its head brushing the ceiling, little plaster chunks falling onto its skin and sticking there.

But from between its shoulder blades sprouted a pair of magnificent wings, delicate, gossamer, shimmering gently silver, even in the dark. Its feet and hands were as nimble and delicate as those of an elf. And Constantine could see its eyes, clear and blue, emitting a soft, beautiful light.

Guardians were half divine, half hellish, to represent the struggle within humans (supposedly to be able to empathise with them, though Constantine had yet to see evidence of this) and as a result their physical appearance reflected that of their inner natures. Half the creature was ugly, repulsive, while the other half was transfixing, breathtaking.

"I was sleeping," the Grinora said tetchily. "I think I will have to eat you."

That was the other problem with guardians. They could never control their urges.

Even inside his protective circle, Constantine was more than a little nervous.

"I brought you kittens," he said, gesturing hopefully to the box at his feet.

The Grinora blinked slowly, its huge blue eyes peering at the box.

"I suppose kittens might make a suitable substitute," it murmured finally.

Constantine masked his relief and tried not to feel too sorry for the kittens as the guardian picked the up box and dropped its entire contents down its throat.

The mewling suddenly ceased.

The guardian swallowed, a brief, satisfied expression crossing its face.

"Now, what do you want?"

"I need a spell to free control of the mind."

The Grinora regarded him curiously.

"For whom?"

"A friend of mine."

The Grinora scratched its wobbling chin with a delicate nail.

"And do you know who or what possesses his mind?"

Constantine shook his head. "Something powerful. That's all I know."

"Hmm." The Grinora looked thoughtful. "No, can't help."

Constantine scowled.

"Look pal, I gave you a really big box of kittens. Cute, fluffy ones. You'd better give me something in return."

The Grinora pouted.

"But it's fun being mean."

Constantine glared.

It sighed.

"Oh very well. I can give you a spell that will repel even the strongest presence from a mind, though I hold no such responsibility for the consequences."

Constantine remembered what the book had said. The victim may not be able to live without the foreign presence. They could go insane.

"I'll take it."

The Grinora nodded.

"Very well. It's quite complicated, I'm afraid. You'll need lots of ingredients. They can be quite costly," it added, as if secretly hoping that Constantine would be too poor to afford extravagance.

"That's my problem. You just concentrate on giving me that spell."

The Grinora sighed again.

"Well, I suppose any sort of mind control is against what I stand for…"

It looked almost disappointed.

"The spell."

The Grinora clapped its hands, and produced a piece of ordinary, white paper.

"Ahem." It cleared its throat and then began muttering words that Constantine couldn't understand. It stopped, squinted at the paper, then shook its head and began muttering again. After five more of these little performances, it finally finished, presenting the paper to Constantine with flourish.

Constantine took it, raising an eyebrow.

"This is typed," he said.

The Grinora nodded, looking suddenly annoyed.

"Microsoft works. Ha, that's an oxymoron if I've ever heard one."

Constantine stared.

"Was there anything else?"

Constantine shook his head, still trying to process the image of guardians sitting at computers.

There was another roaring wind, and then the Grinora was gone, a few book pages floating slowly to the floor in its wake.

Constantine drew a deep breath, wincing at the remaining scent of putrid meat.

God, he was tried. It hit him in a sudden wave, the lack of sleep, the worrying, the running around, the summoning, the dreams. He was surprised he didn't drop down where he stood.

He was desperate to help Chas, but the Grinora hadn't been kidding when it said the spell was complicated. There were quite a lot of things he would have to buy, and even then it would take him a few days, at least, to gather enough energy to try a spell of this magnitude.

He had to sleep, _really_ sleep, allow his body to recuperate. He could go to the magic shop tomorrow, get the ingredients then. Right now what he needed were several large sleeping pills.

He found them, in his bathroom cabinet, prescribed from God knows how long ago. Sleeping tablets didn't go bad, did they?

He undressed properly, for the first time in days, and slipped between the sheets. He lined the pills up, three of them, then knocked them back with water, laid his head on the pillow, and waited for oblivion to claim him.

* * *

The phone was ringing.

Once, twice, three times.

He knew he should get up and answer it, but his limbs felt so heavy.

Six, seven, eight.

Why didn't he put the phone by his bed, like every other normal person?

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen.

Who didn't hang up after the tenth ring?

With a groan, Constantine rolled over, dragging himself from bed and stumbling across the apartment to the phone, snatching it from its cradle.

"Yeah?"

"John? It's me."

Beeman. God, what did he want?

"What?"

"I, uh, was wondering how you were. After…what happened at Fairmont's. I tried calling earlier, but there was no answer."

"I was asleep," Constantine growled.

"Ah, yes, well, that would explain it then."

Constantine waited impatiently for Beeman to make his point and go.

"I was wondering…if you, um, managed to get-"

"I've got it," Constantine interrupted, suddenly realising that he forgotten to give Beeman Venezuela.

"Oh you have!" Beeman sounded, well, delighted. "That's fantastic John. Never doubted you for a second. I trust the information I gave you was useful."

"It was fine," Constantine replied, fighting a yawn. "I'll drop it by later."

He was about to hang up when a sudden thought occurred to him.

"Hey Beeman, have you heard anything about this War of the Worlds that everyone seems to be talking about?"

"I've heard a little," Beeman replied. "As far as I can gather it's rumoured to be a war of the elementals. Supposedly for Earth."

"Why now?" Constantine murmured. "It doesn't make sense. Why suddenly now?"

"I suppose now is as good time as any."

"Could you look into it for me? It seems the half breeds are making a big fuss about it, yet no one on Earth knows jack shit."

"I'll see what I can do," Beeman promised.

Constantine nodded, though Beeman could not see him.

"Something just doesn't seem right…"

"I'll look," Beeman said.

"Right. Thanks."

"Are you alright, John? You don't quite seem yourself."

Constantine blinked, trying to alleviate the weird feeling that had suddenly come over him. Must be the remnants of the sleeping pills.

"I'm fine," he muttered. "I need you to do something else for me. I need you to pull everything you can get on mind control."

"Mind control?"

"I think-" Constantine hesitated, unsure whether or not to get Beeman involved. "I think Chas may be under some kind of mind control. Something powerful."

He heard Beeman take a breath.

"Do you think the two are related? The war and Chas?"

Constantine blinked. The thought hadn't even occurred to him, but Beeman was right. The timing fit, and Chas's strange knowledge of the war. But why? How were they connected?

"It's possible," he conceded. "Worth looking at." The idea unsettled him. "I'll see you later."

He hung up without waiting for Beeman to reply.

He had breakfast that morning, the first in almost as long as he could remember, and firmly by passed his cigarettes, stuffing the half full packet behind the bath tub, so they wouldn't tempt him.

It was only a day or two. He _could_ do it.

He chewed his toast slowly (he'd found the loaf, to his great surprise, in the freezer. It must have been a left over from Chas's stay) but ate it without spread. There was nothing like that in his cupboards. He had made himself some terrible black coffee, and washed his toast down with it, surprised, afterwards, about how good he felt. Hmm, maybe breakfast served a purpose after all.

He washed, got dressed and put his shoes on, then carefully placed the spell the Grinora gave him in his pocket and set out for the magic shop.

The shop was an old one, in a slightly down market part of the city that was filled with independently owned coffee shops and poetry book stores, young, skinny people walking around in black, looking permanently depressed, gripping their works by Goethe or Chaucer or Brecht.

Artistes.

Constantine opened the door of the magic shop, the small bell above tinkling his arrival, and stepped inside, almost immediately overwhelmed by a mixture of smells: herbs, flowers, plants, minerals.

He waited a second, letting his senses adjust, then began to wonder among the carefully arranged shelves.

He liked this shop, despite generally abhorring anything to do with the supernatural, which was small and clean and organised, even though it looked to be overflowing with clutter. They had worked hard at keeping with the times; they accepted credit cards, cheques, took orders, had stock and took inventory (Constantine knew this as he had had an impromptu encounter with one of the girls that worked there once, in the back of the storeroom).

All in all, if one had to shop, it was rather pleasant place to do it.

Constantine took a basket from the stack by the door, and began filling it with things from his list: dried heather, night shade, pumpkin seeds, rose thorns.

As he made his way amongst the shelves, a figure lurking near the books caught his eye, a slender, boyish figure that looked painfully out of place.

He made his forward, reaching out to touch the shoulder of the girl, and as he did she gave a sudden cry and whirled, bringing her knee up into his groin and pushing him against a bookshelf.

Constantine dropped his basket, heather and pumpkin seeds flying everywhere, to cover his injured manhood, unable to stop himself as he connected heavily with the bookshelf, a great groan echoing around the store as it collapsed under his weight and he went down with it, buried under a library and a cloud of dust.

When the dust finally cleared, he could see Mac standing above him, looking rather sheepish.

Behind her stood Rowena, the assistant he had had the fling with, one hand on her slim hip, an eyebrow raised.

"You never do anything quietly, do you John?" she asked, her lilting Tahitian accent playful.

Remembering the way he'd made her shout in the storeroom, he had to smile.

"Guess not," he replied flippantly, pulling himself from the books, fishing around for his basket which was now, predictably, empty.

At least there was nothing breakable in there.

"You need help clearing this up?" he asked.

Rowena shook her head and made a shooing motion with her hand.

"You've done enough damage. I will get Marek to help me. Go. Shop."

Constantine sent her a charming grin which she could not help but return, then grasped Mac's elbow firmly and steered her into a corner of the shop far away from the bookshelves.

"I am so sorry-" she began, but Constantine cut her off.

"Somehow I don't believe it's a coincidence you're here."

Mac raised her chin defiantly.

"What, so I can't do a little shopping?"

"Cut the crap, Mac. What are you doing here?"

For a moment she remained stubborn, then sighed and dug into her jeans pocket, fishing out a piece of paper.

"Okay, so after you left I got thinking. And I thought it was kinda weird that Chas would just up and leave like that, especially since he hadn't bothered to collect his books, which are kind of like his life."

Constantine nodded in agreement. He'd found it strange, seeing all Chas's precious books abandoned like that.

"So, I went online, hacked into a few of his records, tried to find out where he was living, but couldn't get anything. So I took a look at his credit card bills, and found that not very long ago he bought a whole bunch of stuff from this place." She shrugged. "Figured I should check it out."

Despite himself, Constantine was impressed. He barely knew how to turn a computer on, let alone hack into anything. The girl was smart.

The girl was Chas's girlfriend.

He pushed the thought firmly aside.

"Let me see the bill."

She handed over a computer printout, listing all the products Chas had bought, and the dates.

August 14th. Two days ago, the day before Constantine saw him.

He scanned the list of purchases, and almost dropped the sheet in surprise. Some of them were exactly what he himself had used yesterday. Chalk, thyme, lavender, henna. The ingredients for a summoning spell.

But there were other things too. Several small moonstones, a historic dagger, hemp. Things used not in summoning, but possession.

Constantine felt a slight stab of fear. Who or what was Chas summoning that could not go back, that needed a vessel?

Mac was watching him, her dark eyes questioning, and Constantine regarded her thoughtfully.

Could he trust her? She was smart, a little jumpy maybe, but obviously had a head on her shoulders. She could help him get into Chas's computer. She _knew_ Chas, knew the way he thought, could predict what he would do. She could help him.

Her short hair was messy, as if she hadn't bothered to brush it that morning, and she was wearing a tank top with her scruffy jeans, the same scuffed sneakers. Her skin was so pale, her dark hair and eyes a shock against that white.

She was just a kid. Chas's age.

John would never willingly involve Chas in anything like this, had, in fact, done everything he could to keep him away from it. To keep him safe.

"You hungry kid?"

Mac's eyes widened slightly and she nodded.

"I have a few things to get here. Wait for me in that diner across the street. Order anything you want and get me something healthy. And a black coffee."

Mac hesitated, unsure.

"I'm not gonna hurt you kid."

"I know that," she snapped, chin coming up, that toughness he'd seen in her the other day surfacing. "Fine," she said, and he watched her walk out the door, crossing the street to the crummy diner on the other side.

He made his way quickly round the shop, gathering the things he needed and indulging in a bit of harmless banter with Rowena. She smiled temptingly at him as he paid, her silent invitation not at all unappealing, but Constantine didn't have the time right then. Not when Chas's girlfriend was waiting for him across the street. Chas, the guy, the _boy_ he was…what? Obsessed with? Lusting after?

John shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts.

_Later._

Mac looked up as he came in, sipping a chocolate milkshake through a straw, his coffee set out in front of her. He slid into the booth opposite her and she smiled in greeting.

"I ordered you a salad."

Constantine silently cursed his new mind frame.

"And I suppose you'll be a eating a nice cheeseburger?"

Mac grinned at him.

"Got it one."

He studied her, after the food had come and she was absorbed in her French fries, the plain features, the messy hair, the high cheekbones. She was sort of pretty, he supposed, if you looked hard enough, but there wasn't anything immediately appealing about her. She really was more boy than girl, the careless regard to her appearance and tough attitude not exactly taking away from the misconception.

So why did Chas like her?

He knew he was being ridiculous, obsessive even, but he couldn't help but wonder why Chas would bother with her, why he would choose Mac.

She glanced up at him, feeling his gaze.

"What?" she asked, annoyed.

He shook his head, picked listlessly at his salad, then pushed it aside and reached for his coffee.

"So, how long you known Chas?"

She narrowed her eyes slightly, but answered with a shrug.

"Couple of years. We went to school together, before Chas dropped out."

Constantine couldn't imagine Chas at school.

"Why'd he quit?"

She shrugged again.

"Too smart, I guess. Used to run rings around the teachers. He would get bored, and was always looking at things he wasn't supposed to, supernatural stuff. I guess with no parents around, he felt he could make his own decisions." She smiled grimly. "Plus, you can't live in an apartment when you got nothing coming in."

Constantine said nothing. The thought of Chas's bastard parents still made his blood boil.

"You think you can find him?"

Constantine hesitated.

It had been his plan to enlist her help, to use her expertise, but now he wondered, should he? Her talk of school made him realise just how young she was. Did he have any right to place her in potential danger? On the other hand, she was Chas's girlfriend. Didn't she have the right to be involved?

She was staring at him, waiting for his answer.

"I don't know," he said finally.

"But you're looking, right?"

He nodded slowly.

"I'm looking."

"And if you find him, you'll tell me? Get him to at least call me?"

He nodded again. "I will," he lied.

Oh well, no turning back now.

Mac seemed satisfied.

"Did you find anything useful out from the credit card list?" she asked.

Constantine shook his head.

"Just a jumble of things, no pattern I can see."

She sighed, looking dispirited.

"I tried."

Constantine felt bad, seeing her so deflated, but he pushed the pity aside. He had to focus on Chas, that was all that mattered now.

Mac finished off her milkshake, slurping the last bits with her straw.

"You know," she said, not looking at him. "I don't really believe in magic and all that mumbo jumbo crap. Chas is always going on about demons, spells, stuff like that. I used to laugh at him for it." She looked slightly thoughtful. "But these days I'm not so sure."

He remembered last time they'd met, the way she dragged him out of the church after he'd sworn.

"Are you religious?"

She shrugged.

"Sort of. I believe in God." She laughed. "That's about as far as I've got, I'm afraid."

He raised his eyebrows in question.

"It's that church thing," she said. "I hate all the denominations."

"All of them?"

"They're all hypocrites. They have so many rules and regulations. So many dos and don'ts. Do you think God cares if you cross yourself before you pray, or if it's the Minister who gives out the bread and wine? When someone's baptised, do you think God likes it when they have to go through a whole, huge, boring ceremony. Do you think there were ceremonies on the River Jordan?"

He smiled slightly at her tirade. He could almost see why Chas would like her.

"So you believe in God but not the church. Where does magic come into that?"

She shrugged again. It seemed to be a favourite pastime of hers.

"It just seems too unreal. I believe there is something higher, that we're not just here by chance, but beyond that I have no clue."

So that explained the sex before marriage.

"Magic just seems so…fairytale."

She suddenly looked worried.

"Do you think Chas is alright?"

"Chas will be fine," he replied firmly. "I am going to find him and I am going to bring him home." He tried to ignore the little stab of guilt as she looked comforted by his words. Whatever the future held for him and Chas, he didn't exactly envision Mac being a part of it.

"I believe you," she said. "God knows why as your constant presence hasn't exactly been my greatest source of happiness…"

She trailed off, seeming to realise she'd said too much.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "My 'constant presence'?"

She shrugged, looking uncomfortable.

"Chas just talks about you a lot, is all. Sometimes it feels as if you're in the room with us." She squared her shoulders slightly, steeling herself for whatever she was going to say next.

"I know I don't…have Chas. Not in the way I'd like, but I hope to change that someday. You should just be aware, that's all."

Constantine raised an eyebrow. Was this girl, this slight, scruffy girl threatening him? Warning him off her man. It would almost be funny, if it didn't make his heart thump with guilt and sudden fear.

This girl was willing to fight for Chas. If it came down to it, would Chas even want him?

Or would he choose her.

_Stop it._

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he lied.

Mac regarded him.

"Right," she said, but he knew she wasn't buying it.

Constantine paid for their food, and they walked out together, Constantine's magic shop purchases in a paper bag in his arms.

It was another clear, yet stiflingly hot day. He tilted his head back, taking in the blue sky, fringed with sky scrapers and pollution.

He blinked. Had he just imagined that?

He could have sworn, for a second, that a little tear appeared in the sky.

Maybe he really _was_ going crazy.

He looked at Mac, and it happened again, behind her, in the road, just a tiny rip which appeared then disappeared.

"Did you see that?" he asked.

"See what?"

"That tear thing…"

She was looking at him strangely.

"Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine," he snapped, irritated. "I just thought I saw…never mind."

She was still looking at him oddly.

"You look a little pale."

"I'm always pale."

"Yeah, but now you're really pale."

"I'm fine, will you just drop it?"

Mac looked taken aback by his sharp tone.

"No need to get crabby."

He scowled, but said nothing more. Little holes were opening up in the earth and he was the only who could see them. His life just got better and better.

"Well I gotta go, thanks for the lunch."

"Sure."

"Hey." She stopped suddenly and pulled a pen out of her jeans pocket, then leant over and scribbled something on his paper bag.

"My number and address," she said. "So you can call me if, you know, you find him. Chas left some stuff at my place, books about Demon Queens and stuff. Maybe I'll even read them. Who knows, it could help."

He nodded, remembering her eagerness to help, her handy skills.

Maybe he should…

"See you round, Constantine."

She turned and walked away.

Constantine wasn't sure if he was annoyed or relieved.

On his own again.

* * *

He spent the next two days holed up in his apartment, the phone unplugged, the door locked, drinking lots of coffee and water and eating baked beans on whole wheat toast, a source of fibre and stuff

He slept as much as he could, and when the nightmares invaded took the sleeping pills in the bathroom cabinet.

He was storing his energy, preparing his body for the spell he was going to perform, the trial he would have to face.

He only smoked two cigarettes.

It was on the third day that he was ready.

He was well rested, his body in as good a shape as it had ever been, his energy -physical, mental and magical- in full flow.

It was time.

He pushed the giant table to one end of the apartment, and stacked all the bottles of holy water that lined the windows by his bed.

He laboured over drawing the markings out on his wooden floor, first in chalk, then blood (not his own blood, high quality pig's blood).

He carefully placed the black and white candles at the precise points of the drawings, surrounding each one by a pool of concocted rose thorns, pumpkin seeds, heather and nightshade, mashed up and watered down into a sort of wet paste. Apparently the strong scent and potent combination of ingredients would attract and confuse the foreign presence in the mind.

He laid the giant, earthenware jug, complete with stopper, at the point of the symbols, within easy reach, to catch the foreign presence in.

The he sat, cross legged, in the centre, and proceeded to speak the first words of the spell, painting the required symbols on his face and arms in the pig's blood.

At first he felt nothing happen, then a slight tingling, up and down his spin, along his arms. It grew stronger as he continued, lighting each candle at the appropriate words. The heat from the wax soon reached the pools of herbs beneath, sending the dizzying perfumes into the enclosed space.

The tingling was fierce now, gripping him as the room around him began to shake, ever so slightly.

He could see the chairs moving, the books on the table quivering, but could not feel it, protected in the very centre of the symbol.

It reassured him. He was safe.

He closed his eyes, beginning to speak the ancient words of the main spell, his hands shaking with effort of resisting the almost painful tingling which held him now, the magic trying to course through him.

The shaking was worse now, the floor beneath him moved, and a candle went out.

Not breaking his chanting, Constantine leaned forward, using a long tab to relight the candle from another.

An unseen force jerked his arm, his hand slipping into the hissing flame. He grit his teeth against the pain, continued to speak, relit the other candle and withdrew his arm into the safety of the centre circle. He could feel his hand throbbing, the skin blistering, but ignored it.

It would get a lot worse.

The floor shook again, and he fell sideways, pulling himself back into the circle even as he felt invisible hands reaching to drag him from it.

He chanted, raising his voice a little, undeterred.

He could feel a presence trying to break into his mind, and for a second he faltered, confused, the words eluding him.

He felt it sliding away from him, the magic, the control, slipping from his shaky grasp.

_No. _

He wrenched his mind back again, every ounce of his being fighting, forced himself to say the words.

The candles around him flickered, quickly, dangerously, though none went out.

He could feel the presence's rage. Rage that he would not give up, rage that he dared to try and interfere in the first place.

It pulled at him, battered him, and he swayed, in the circle, against that all consuming tirade.

He chanted, shouting the words in defiance, and for a moment the rage subsided, for a moment he felt past the rage, past the presence, felt something else, something so familiar.

Chas.

Amongst that rage, that control, that evil, he felt the tiny, struggling beacon that was Chas, pure, tired, lost.

And in that second, so amazed that he could actually _feel_ Chas, he let his concentration slip. The chanting stopped, he relaxed, just for a split second.

But it was enough.

In a rush, the candles went out, the flames extinguished, and the words were gone, wiped from his mind. He was torn from the circle, a great howling in his mind, and thrown against the window, the glass shattering around him, piercing his skin. He was pulled, half falling to the ground, and flung across the room, hitting the door with explosive burst of pain, slashes opening across his skin, leaking blood, warm and wet, running over him.

For a moment he seemed to hover in mid air, then rushed upwards, smashed against the ceiling, his windpipe compressed, choking, dying.

Then it was over, and he fell to the floor with a thud, hitting the candles, the scent of heather and pumpkin seeds washing over him as he lost consciousness.

* * *

He could remember a spell gone wrong.

As he lay there, hours afterwards, slowly waking and trying to piece together what had happened, he could gather that much.

He had gotten distracted, was dragged from the circle.

His skin hurt, felt too tight, crusty.

He couldn't see properly, the vision in his right eye obscured.

He lay there, for hours, perhaps days, he didn't know.

All he knew was the pain, and the failure.

Somewhere inside his confused mind, he knew that.

He had failed, he had failed and now he had nothing more to do, no other trick to try.

He would give up.

He had lost.

He wasn't even sure what he had lost, what he was giving up.

He knew it was something important, but he was so tired, so confused, he just couldn't think. He knew he was lying in something wet, and the rational, working part of his brain told him he should get up, that he was injured, that he needed to get it together.

But the rest of him just lay there, confused, damaged, broken.

He had failed.

When he did manage to get up, he did not recognise the man who stared back at him from the mirror, this man with dark hair and pale skin and slashing cuts across his face.

He knew, in some, distant sort of way, that the man was him, and that he was looking at himself, but couldn't seem to connect the information so that it made any sense, and found himself self crawling under blankets, cocooned in sudden warmth, darkness.

Nothing mattered anymore, he realised.

There was no pint. He had failed. There was no point.

He did not think. He did not feel. He did not sleep.

He was blank, removed.

He had given up.


End file.
